


detox just to retox

by FaiaSakura



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Hanahaki Disease, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, parse positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/pseuds/FaiaSakura
Summary: Hanahaki Disease: a magical illness that afflicts only those experiencing unrequited love, causing them to cough up flower petals until their love is returned - or they die.Kent Parson is managing his hanahaki progression just fine, thank you very much. But one slip up is all it takes for the whole world to zoom in on him, his disease, and every tiny detail about his personal life. If that isn't stressful enough, Jack Zimmermann showing up on his doorstep is.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 50
Kudos: 179
Collections: OMGCP AU Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have two wonderful artists ladymars and smilingpigeons as collaborators, please check out the art they made for this work.
> 
> Thank you to my beta's Khasahana (as part of Fandom Trumps Hate 2019) and ailurea (the bestest most patient editing friend)! Also thank you to the OMGCP AU Bangs mods for running a great event!

_September 25th, 2020_

Jack nurses a beer—some craft IPA that Tater insisted he had to try—as they watch a preseason game from Tater's couch. It's late—they should all be resting, considering they have a game tomorrow, but Tater insisted on some of the guys going over to his house. _Research,_ he called it, as he put on a game, as though this isn't just Tater trying to soak in social time before the season grind leaves them without energy.

The Aces are playing a home game against the Flyers that hasn't gone anywhere so far. The second period is already half over, with both teams scoreless. Both teams are obviously feeling the pressure of the ticking clock. 

A Flyer checks Kent in the ribs, knocking him into the boards. Jack winces, but doesn't think too much of it. It wasn't particularly hard, but—

Kent doesn't shake it off like he normally would. He _tries_ to—Jack watches him try to continue skating like normal—but now Kent clutches his chest with one hand and covers his mouth with the other. His coach has already called for a timeout, but Kent doesn't quite make it off the ice before he's coughing up blood and something else onto the rink plexiglass he’s up against for support.

Jack freezes, beer bottle halfway to his lips, as his teammates mutter in confusion around him. It doesn't make any sense; Kent hadn't been hit all that hard, and after years of checking and being checked, Jack was certain something else was at hand. Also, Kent had been knocked off course by a check to his torso, not a stick to his face, and he hadn't hit his head on anything, but was that a tooth he was spitting out?

As the camera zooms in, the commentators go wild as Jack's heart skips a beat. And another.

It's not a tooth amidst the blood Kent spat out, it's a flower petal.

* * *

_Shit, shit, shit fuck._ Kent's mind is a stream of expletives as he quickly pulls off his glove to snatch up the flower petals stuck to the plexiglass. He awkwardly punches Ducky on the shoulder as he takes Kent's place and heads straight for the locker room.

Body on autopilot, Kent opens his locker and safely deposits the petals—seven in total, still all separate—into a clean Ziploc bag, silently watching as the notifications on his phone blow up.

He fucked up. 

Years of experience keeping things under wraps, only for a simple side check to knock at his lungs and cause him to lose control of his stupid, uncooperative airways. _Shit_ , he thinks, already cringing at the ramifications of the public finding out he's sick.

No matter. Kent cleans the blood off his hands and gloves and heads back out to the rink.

He's got a game to win.

Coach pulls Ducky back out so Kent can reclaim his place. The team is nervous—as are the Flyers, but they can suck it. Kent does his best to ignore what just happened, calling out a "We got this" to his line as the puck drops.

There's a flurry of action, but the energy in the rink is different now. There's an undercurrent of hesitation from both teams, a sense of frazzled nerves that might not be obvious to the audience but is palpable on the ice. 

_Fuck that._

Kent is still one of the best players in the League, hanahaki or not, and he takes full advantage as he one-times the puck inches from the goalie’s glove and scores the first goal of the night.

It's the only goal that ends up getting scored, since it knocks the senses back into all the players, and the Aces win 1-0. Ordinarily, Kent would be riding the high of the win for at least an hour or two, but today, even as he retires to the locker rooms, Kent is two steps ahead in the timeline, trying to plan what to say in the presser he has no way of dodging. 

He's got nothing. 

_Shit._

* * *

** Journal of Infectious Diseases **

******Review of Hanahaki Treatments** May 1989 J. Chia, J. Chance, P. Nak, and Z. Williams 

_Introduction_

The hanahaki affliction, believed to have originated from Japan circa 500 BE, is the development of a magical cancer upon the exposure pollen from certain strains of magicae prunus subhirtella. It is a telemagic psychosomatic condition predicated by the afflicted patient experiencing unrequited romantic love and only infects individuals with sufficient levels of magic to sustain the cancerous growth.

There are three known cures for the disease. The first is telemagic pyschosomatic requital, in which the target of the unrequited feelings returns the patient’s affections, and is not something a medical or medi-magical practitioner can provide. The other two are surgical removal of the magical growth, and whole-system magical nullification. Surgery, specifically lobectomy or pneumonectomy depending on the size of the cancer and stage of the disease the patient is in, is a definitive treatment for hanahaki stages 1 to 3, but encompass all dangers and costs associated with general anesthesia and major surgery. Magical nullification, a time-intensive process, will also cure the disease at any stage, but comes with a long list of potential side effects and is not regarded as a particularly ethical treatment.

The preferred treatment plan is for the patient to manage symptoms, especially while in stages 1 and 2, in the non-scientific hope that requital will occur. This article reviews published scientific studies and clinical trials testing a variety of treatments on the management of hanahaki. The criteria examined include efficacy in the reduction of symptom severity, improvements to quality of life, and a reduction in the speed of disease onset.

[...]

_Conclusion_

Commonly prescribed non-magical pharmaceutical products, including cough suppressants, steroids, and bronchial dilation inhalants demonstrate in general little efficacy in all categories examined. Traditional magical treatments, often resembling home remedies, incorporate magical flora and fauna products and demonstrate statistically significant efficacy for disease management. The most effective products were those containing products derived from magicae prunus subhirtella or the manifested flower petals produced by the hanahaki patient themself in stages 2 and 3. Due to the rare nature of magical species and the common need to import treatment products, these treatments often prove to be a significant financial burden. This review recommends further research into the development of medi-magical products for symptom and disease management of hanahaki. 

* * *

Faestaynight posted:

**Kent Parson Hanahaki Fic Rec List ******

********

So I can’t even begin to express all the emotions that I feel about Parse confirming he has hanahaki. It’s 3am and I think we’re all a little devastated by it. He hasn’t officially confirmed it but there are already gifs on twitter of him coughing up flower petals so I expect an announcement soon. I’ve been going through my bookmarks on AO3 and reading my fave happy-ending hanahaki fics as a way to kind of, like, deal with it I guess. Because yeah, it’s not a death-sentence the way it was for that period of time where magi-medicine was lost and modern medicine couldn’t deal with it, but it still sucks for him. His personal strife is now out there. 

****

I thought that since inhaling these have helped me not freak the fuck out, I might as well make a list since I can’t seem to sleep. Here’s the AO3 deets and my personal notes on my faves.

****

[Read More]

****

#kent parson #rpf #fic recs #holllyyyyyy shitttt #is this art imitates life or life imitates art  
19 notes

****

* * *

****

_September 26th, 2020_

****

Jack is a jittery mess by the time he reaches Kent's front door. He tried reading some articles downloaded onto his phone before his flight but barely started the Wikipedia one before his thoughts turned too fatalistic to continue. 

****

He learned enough to know this: hanahaki only manifests flowers from flowering trees. If there was no other floral symbology important to the patient, the flowers coughed up would be cherry blossom with long petals, resembling the origin tree of the disease. 

****

It wasn’t just any kind of flower petal Kent had coughed up onto the rink, though. The camera had zoomed in closely enough on Tater's 4K TV for Jack to see the finer details. 

****

Those pink petals, rounded with little divots, were of the exact same as trees planted at his family home in Montreal. His mother fell in love with cherry blossoms during a location shoot in Japan and had spent a small fortune planting rows of them in their yard. 

****

Jack grew up with those trees as his quiet place—as a child, throughout the few weeks when the flowers bloomed in late spring, he sat beneath the branches and let the raining petals soothe him.

****

Over a decade ago, back when they were Jack&Kenny, Zimms&Parse, Jack took Kent for a picnic in his backyard, under the blooming sakura. He remembers telling Kent they were his favorite flower, the delicate blossoms that bloomed so beautifully but were short lived. Kent made a photo frame with his hands, extending them out towards him and declared Jack prettier than any flower. At the time, Jack had been embarrassed about how Kent could readily call another boy pretty.

****

Kent coughing up those flowers specifically has to mean something, doesn’t it?

****

Maybe it’s egotistical to think that Jack could be the unrequited love Kent is sick from, all these years later, yet here he is ringing Kent's doorbell at 6am, convinced that it is.

****

Nobody answers the door.

****

Jack hits the doorbell a few more times, then knocking on it with his fist. He's about to decide that Kent really isn't home when the door finally opens.

****

"Zimms. What the hell?" Kent is glaring from the doorway, dressed in only boxers and a faded shirt. His hair, unruly on a good day, is a mess of fluffy blonde tufts sticking up.

****

Jack, who definitely had something smarter to say five seconds ago, forgets it all and blurts out, "Is it me?"

****

Kent remains unmoved from where he stands, spits back, "What the fuck are you talking about?" But there’s a flinch just before his response, a glimmer of panic sparking in tired eyes—he knows exactly what Jack is talking about. But before Jack can reply, Kent grabs his arm and hisses, "Get in here before the neighbors see you. Or worse, the paps."

****

Letting himself get dragged into the house, Jack says, "Those were autumn cherry blossom petals. Is it me?" 

****

The moment Jack finishes his question, Kent releases his arm like it’s a hot brand and presses his lips together in frustration.

****

There's a pause as they stare awkwardly at each other until Kent declares, "I'm too sober for this bullshit." 

****

Jack trails slowly after Kent but stays on the outside of the kitchen bar as Kent goes behind it to pull out a bottle of Patron and a shot glass. He doesn't bother offering Jack a drink—probably guessing that Jack wouldn't take it if he did—and takes a shot. Then another. He attempts to pour a third, but Jack has had enough of the stalling and shoots out a hand to catch Kent’s wrist.

****

Kent huffs but doesn't otherwise protest. Instead, he asks again, "What are you doing here?" Less angry now, but hardly friendly in any sense of the word.

****

There are dark circles around Kent’s eyes. His face looks gaunt and Jack almost regrets this, almost wants to let Kent go back to sleep. Almost, but not enough to stop. 

****

"Is it me?" 

****

By now, just enough time has passed with them dancing around the subject that Jack is less confident in his initial assumption that he's the one Kent is in love with. Maybe the autumn sakura petals were just a coincidence, and there's someone else, and Jack flew all the way across the country to sound like an idiot.

****

"Fucking—" Kent rests his elbows on the bar counter, bracing his head down in his hands for a moment, before glaring up again at Jack and spitting out, "Yeah, it's you." 

****

Jack doesn't have much knowledge of romantic confessions—from his own experience or from the few romance movies he’s watched—but that has to be up there amongst the most aggressive confirmations of love ever. Then he actually processes what Kent just admitted to. Despite all the hoops Jack just jumped through to get to this point, he had somehow still expected Kent to deny it all.

****

Another awkward silence ensues, one that lingers with an oppressive weight blanketing over them as dawn light filters in from the windows. When it becomes apparent that Kent isn't giving a single inch without more prompting from Jack, he asks, "Were you going to tell me?"

****

Kent does his best impression of a statue before saying flatly, "I don't know."

****

"So, what, you were just going to collapse on the ice one day?" Jack's worst-case scenario comes out accusatory and sharper than he intended. Kent and he have always been able to draw out the worst in each other.

****

Kent matches his question with one of his own. "What are you _really_ doing here?"

****

"I wanted to know—"

****

"Bullshit. You could have texted or called. Instead, you jumped on the soonest flight possible."

****

Jack feels flat-footed, caught out on half a lie, because why _is_ he here? Kent is right that there are much simpler ways to get in contact—ways that are easily ignorable, Jack could argue, but the real reason he flew all the way to Vegas isn’t so simple as just to ensure Kent couldn’t ignore him. Not really.

****

Time seems to slow as words spill unbidden from Jack. "What if I try falling in love with you?" 

****

Jack is internally cringing before he even finishes speaking. Where had that come from? This wasn't the plan, not really—assuming Jack actually had a plan in coming here, which honestly seems more and more of a delusion as the seconds tick by—but he can't bring himself to regret his words, or rescind the offer.

****

Kent's response is to pour himself a third shot of tequila and knock it back. 

****

Jack is bracing himself for another scathing response, but the fight drains right out of Kent, leaving him in a tired slump. He looks exhausted, leaning on the countertop as if he doesn't have the strength to stay upright without it.

****

Maybe he doesn't. 

****

Now that Jack gives himself the chance to think about it, Kent was probably up late, with a long and stressful night of handling the world finding out he’s sick. 

****

There's a weariness in Kent's bones, in his very soul, now that Jack pays attention and really _looks_. It's more than dark smudges under Kent's eyes or mussed hair—hair that Jack ignores the contradictory urge to both smooth and ruffle. It’s the tired slump in his shoulders and the fidgeting in his fingers and the way he can’t maintain his facade anymore. Kent always put on masks of unabashed cheerful smirking or wicked hot rage to hide behind, masks so seamless Jack often couldn’t see past them, but there are chinks in that armor now.

****

Has Jack finally gotten better at reading Kent? Or is Kent simply too tired to maintain the facade?

****

Kent shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off Jack’s observations. "You still like eggs over medium, yeah? Put your stuff down and sit, I'll make breakfast." 

****

Jack watches in irritation as Kent does exactly that—heat up a pan and start frying eggs—while completely ignoring Jack. It’s a stupid stalling tactic of Kent’s that is just as frustrating as Jack remembers. There will be no getting him to budge until Kent’s done with his distraction—breakfast in this case.

****

Well, a moment to collect his thoughts wouldn’t be bad. Jack notices he’s still carrying his duffle bag and dumps it by the couch, then waits at the dining table,watching Kent. For all that Kent’s not a morning person, his movements are efficient and economical—in the zone. 

****

It’d be great if Kent could focus on talking to Jack and not on breakfast of all things, even if he does probably need to fill his stomach after that much tequila. 

****

Jack tells himself not to pick a fight, repeating it like a mantra over and over in his head—until a hearty plate of turkey bacon and eggs, along with a green protein smoothie, gets deposited in front of him. Kent has something similar in front of him, but also an amber-colored drink in a clear glass. 

****

Jack frowns at it, but before he can comment, Kent intercepts his thought. "Chill out, Zimms, it's tea. I'm not going to get drunk at ass o'clock in the morning. Eat your food, then we'll talk."

****

The silence is less awkward as they chew. The scent of bacon, even turkey bacon, must have drawn out the cats, because now Kit and Purrs are both circling, whining plaintively. Purrs jumps onto the table near Jack's plate and gives a hopeful chirp. Jack shoots Kent a quick glance.

****

"Just not too much, I'm about to feed them."

****

Purrs nuzzles under Jack's hand after gobbling up the bit of bacon, greedily claiming it for pets and rumbling in pleasure. Kit is more wary, only accepting food from Kent. 

****

After they finish eating and the cats are fed, they retire to the couch. The arrangement in the living room is an eclectic mix of modern minimalism and comfortable furniture—Jack spares a thought for who decorated it, and another for when Kent became so into tea, as Kent sets an entire liter bottle full of the same drink down on the coffee table. 

****

Well. There's probably a lot of things he doesn't know about Kent now. 

****

Jack also doesn’t know what to say that won’t upset Kent and waits for the move. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long. 

****

"Zimms, have you lost your mind? Did you get a concussion? _What if I try falling in love with you?_ " Kent mockingly parrots back Jack's own words. "This is either next level dumbassery or next level assholery. I'm leaning towards the second." 

****

Jack grits his teeth to prevent himself from rising to the bait he knew was coming. Something hot and sickly from deep inside him wants to chomp on those words, fight back with equal vitriol, and it takes all he has to tamp down on a nasty retort that will get them nowhere. That is, nowhere except the toxic spiral of fighting and avoidance that Jack thought they had moved on from over a year ago when they finally rekindled their relationship as a fragile fledgling friendship.

****

"I'm being serious. Ken-t." Jack almost slips and calls him Kenny. 

****

It isn’t his place to say _Kenny_ anymore, but somehow everything this morning is taking him back to that time. Kent will hardly appreciate being called Kenny, though. Probably as much as Jack is enjoying being called _Zimms._ "I could try—"

****

"Stop." Kent takes a sip from his bottle. "I don't need your pity. I don't need _anyone's_ pity, but I especially don't need _yours_." 

****

"It's not pity." It's _not_ , Jack is sure of it. All Jack wants is for Kent to get better. And this is the cure for hanahaki—-requited love. 

****

"The hell it isn't. We are barely friends now, Jack. And this after you ghosted me for the better part of a decade and I refused to acknowledge you could have boundaries with me on the outside. Yes, I'm well-adjusted enough to admit it. But seriously? You want me to believe that, after all this time, you show up without explanation, wanting to try _falling in love with me_ out of what—noble intentions? Nostalgic sentiment?" 

****

It is incredibly difficult to not match Kent word for jaggedly sharp word. So Jack slips, just a bit. "Well, you're in love with me, after all this time." He regrets saying it the moment the words fall out, but it's too late to take them back. A lot of things seem to end up being too late, where Kent is involved. 

****

Kent's face darkens with rage and he takes a deliberately long sip from his bottle, possibly to restrain himself from smashing Jack with it—Kent has never been prone to violence, preferring to shred someone verbally, easily finding every vulnerable spot, but he certainly looks angry enough now. 

****

"Fuck you, and not in the fun way. I have not been pining pathetically over you for the last eleven years."

****

This draws Jack up short. 

****

He hasn't? It might be self-absorbed to have assumed so, but it was a natural assumption to make—that Kent has been hung up on Jack ever since they were together in the Q. 

****

"Wipe the disbelief off your stupid face. I've been in relationships since you. You know that. Maybe my boyfriends weren't as picture-perfect as you and Eric Bittle were, but I didn’t date them while in love with someone else. God, what kind of person do you take me for?" 

****

"I didn't mean—that's not—" 

****

Jack hadn't meant to imply any of that, but he and Kent have always been a series of miscommunications, like ships missing in the night, passing right by each other. Maybe it is as ridiculous as Kent thinks it is.

****

But before Jack has more time to spiral in doubt, Kent's phone starts going off. He pulls it out and startles at whatever he sees on the screen.

****

"How is it already—?" Kent makes a sound of frustration. "I have a meeting with PR in an hour, followed by a press conference. I need to get ready. Are you sticking around?" 

****

Kent’s question is sharp and unwelcoming. "Um." Jack can't tell if Kent means in his house or in Las Vegas. 

****

"I'll be back around noon. The guest bedroom is down the hall, second door on your left. Take a nap; you look like shit. Extra toiletries are in the medicine cabinet." With that, Kent walks off, presumably to his own bedroom to get ready.

****

Jack stares blankly at Kent's retreating back, relieved that he can stay, before following the directions. He keeps quiet in the guest room, waiting to hear Kent’s departure before turning his phone on. It blazes up with notifications, most noticeably several worried texts from his parents.

****

_Crisse_. Just one more thing he's screwed up today. He flops on the bed and calls his mother back.

****


	2. Chapter 2

**Kent Parson Coughs Up Flower Petals and Sharp Retorts**  
September 26th, 2020  
The Vegas Daily  
by Jason Manfree

Our very own captain of the NHL Las Vegas Aces, Kent Parson, shocked viewers of last night’s preseason game. The Aces played the Flyers in what should have been a routine, low-stakes game filled primarily with team rookies. Instead, after a check gone wrong, Kent Parson found himself coughing up blood and flower petals inside the rink. 

Coughing up flower petals—barring any recent prior consumption of flowers—is a unique condition associated with hanahaki, a rare magical disease. This disease afflicts those people in our population who still have low levels of magic and manifests because a person who is experiencing unrequited love has been exposed to magical pollen. It ranges from curable to terminal depending on the severity affecting the individual in question and what treatment options they pursue. 

Kent Parson was the top draft pick in 2009 and has been with the LV Aces ever since. He’s set records and won countless awards, not to mention he’s led his team to winning the Stanley Cup three times in ten years. 

Nobody suspected that he had Stage 2 hanahaki, which he confirmed today in a press conference. He was tight-lipped and had little else to say, only that his hockey performance has suffered minimal impact from his illness. Whether that’s true or not, nobody can deny he is one of the top hockey players in, not only the league, but also in NHL history. 

When disrespectfully asked about the identity of the man his unreturned affections were targeted at, he only had this to ask of us all: “Why would I do that? Why would I expose the man I’m in love with to harassment by the media, stalking by the paparazzi, criticism from strangers on the internet and even judgement from people in his personal life?” 

The Aces have a strong lineup this year and Las Vegas will fully support our favorite captain and team in the season to come. 

* * *

Kent returns to his house from the press conference to find Jack crawling on his knees, trying to engage Kit with a cat toy as she ignores him. Before he can keep his mouth shut, Kent lets slip, "Huh, didn't think you'd still be here."

Jack freezes, apparently not having noticed Kent return, and turns his head to say, "I— uh. Thought it was fine to stay?" There's a slight blush gracing his cheeks as he gets up stiffly. Kit retreats to join Purrs on the cat tree.

A hideous emotion crawls within Kent, twisting and turning enough that he can almost taste bile rising in response. There's a way to throw those words right back into Jack's face, Jack who invaded his space and demanded answers he no longer has any right to, but—

But Kent is tired of fighting and frankly too exhausted to think up a suitably sharp comeback. Any indignation he manages to hold onto immediately slips out of his grasp. Instead, because apparently Kent has lost his verbal filter sometime in the last three hours, he admits, "I was kinda hoping you were a stress hallucination."

"I can—"

Fucking predictable. Kent cuts Jack off before he can do his whole polite Canadian routine. "Sit. You want to talk, let's talk."

As much as he wants to dodge this conversation, rebuffing Jack will take more energy than Kent has at the moment. The irony in Kent's reluctance is not lost on him—eleven years ago he would have given almost anything to have five minutes of Jack's time, had contemplated multiple times that first season if giving up his coveted position and fledgling wealth and growing fame would buy him a chance at love. 

Kent has since grown out of such foolish dreams.

A darker part of Kent wants to point out the utter hypocrisy Jack is embodying: an overdose, phone calls never returned, messages left unread, visits rebuffed. Kent could easily toss Jack out and ghost him—turnabout's fair play, isn't it? He shoves these thoughts away.

They sit in the same spots they did this morning. The only difference is now they both look less like shit, even if Kent feels worse off than when he was blindsided by Jack earlier. Kent raises an eyebrow as he leans back, trying to taunt Jack into starting. This certainly isn't Kent's idea, and he isn't in a charitable enough mood to just spill out information. 

Jack takes the bait. "You said it wasn't eleven years. When—How long?"

This first question isn't as bad as Kent thought it might be—on the surface. The full explanation is a story Kent doesn't think he'll ever be ready to tell. It's better than Jack just jumping in again with his inane offer, which Kent had half expected.

"Few months back. That massive barbecue at Tater's."

"What? But that's so—" _recent, soon, little time._ Jack struggles to find the right phrase.

Kent isn't sure what Jack was going to say, but the complicated expression on Jack's face says he probably doesn't know how to end the sentence either. Jack makes his thinking face, the one with furrowed eyebrows and a slight pout—which Jack always denied making—and Kent has the most ridiculous urge to smooth it away.

No. 

Bad.

It's the same face Jack has always made when something perplexes him. Back in the Q, if they were alone when Jack ended up with this expression, Kent would lean up on his toes to kiss Jack's forehead and make a joke about getting worry lines. Enough time has passed that there _are_ worry lines now—developed over a decade spent apart. 

Kent holds onto that last thought like a lifeline: he doesn't need his life to revolve around Jack, not again and not ever. 

Kent had a good reason for hoping Jack wouldn't still be in his house. Jack was a threat and a temptation rolled up into six feet of hockey muscle and Canadian passive aggression. For every second Jack stays here, the risks of getting sucked into his orbit and triggering a massive dual explosion grow. 

When they were younger, Kent thought of Jack as a bright star and himself as a simple planet spinning around him. The comparison isn't quite right anymore—they're more like a binary star system, requiring a delicate gravitational balance, lest they collide into mutual destruction.

Jack is staring helplessly at Kent, already unsure of how to continue the conversation, and they're only one question in. 

It's going to be a long afternoon.

"Yep," Kent says, with a snide pop. Kent confirms how little time he’s been sick, technically. But just because Kent is tired, doesn't mean he's not going to make Jack work for answers. There's that tickle in the back of Kent's throat as they stare at each other in silence.

"Kent." It sounds like Jack’s patience is being tested. Good. If Kent has to struggle, so does Jack.

"Hold on, I need to get more tea." Before Jack can protest, Kent is already halfway to the kitchen, opening up his fridge to grab another cold-brew tea. He'll need to make more today or tomorrow, there are only three bottles left.

As Kent returns to the couches, Jack asks, "When did you start drinking so much tea?" while still wearing a face of confusion.

"When I got hanahaki," Kent snarks. He's not actually annoyed about the tea being questioned, but the longer this conversation takes, the more jittery he feels, the buzzing energy when he reaches the wrong side of tired starting to course through him.

Kent's voice must be a little too deadpan, a little too on edge though, as Jack immediately cringes.

"Sorry," Jack says, with that stupidly charming Canadian accent—mostly gone, but the _sorry_ still sticks out. "I didn't mean to. That is…"

"Chill, Zimms. Lighten up a bit." Kent takes a sip of the tea, more to have something to do rather than out of thirst or necessity, though he can feel a little something in the back of his mouth even if he isn't due to cough up petals anytime soon. The familiar flavor—salty with a hint of vinegar—goes down smoothly, and leaves behind a floral aftertaste that Kent has long gotten used to. "This is magic tea. It helps suppress the advancement of the hanahaki."

"Magic tea? Really?" Jack peers curiously at the bottle in Kent's hand, as if trying to visually divine the secrets from it. As far as Kent knows, Jack doesn't have a magical affinity, so he's not sure what staring at the tea will do.

Kent restrains himself from chirping something along the lines of _did you fly cross-country to see my tea?_ or the classic but overused _take a picture, it'll last longer_. But perhaps in an attempt to prove to himself he can keep the peace, Kent chooses to bring their conversation back on topic. "Somehow I don't think that's what you really want to be asking me."

"You're right. I—Kenny—" Jack flinches at the slip.

Kent almost flinches too, but manages to simply grip his bottle a little harder. It's probably not a noticeable movement. Hopefully.

Jack continues, "I don't really know why I came, not really. I—don't give me that look, Parse, okay? I don't know. I saw you cough up petals on TV, I had to learn from a camera zoom-in that you were sick. I thought we were friends again."

"Us being _friends_ doesn't mean you're entitled to every little detail of my life." 

Classic Jack Zimmermann, being so focused on something that he goes for an outrageous grand gesture, without thought of how it might affect people. Do the Falconers have practice today? Their first game isn't for another couple days, but Kent finds it hard to believe they conveniently don't have practice the exact day Jack wants to spontaneously fly to Vegas. Which, of course, means Kent is responsible for an MIA Jack. Does his team even know where he is?

Jack jabs back with, "I would hardly refer to a terminal illness as a little detail."

What does he know? Nothing. Not only because Kent hasn't told him anything—but because he hasn't exactly been present in Kent's life to receive the inside scoop. 

Ask Kent to list out the top five most important things about himself and hanahaki wouldn’t make the cut—maybe not even the top ten. Jack is fussing over him just like everyone else, using phrases like _terminal illness_ and _sick_ and _dying_ —it's everything Kent wanted to avoid. He knows, very intimately, the consequences of hanahaki, and he doesn't need every last person reminding him of it.

Kent intends to crack a joke, add some levity to the moment, but instead his lack of filter strikes again and Kent blurts out while barely managing to suppress a cough, "Our rekindled friendship is the entire reason I'm sick!"

The stricken look on Jack's face, the raw hurt in his eyes, lights an urge in Kent to cross over to him and embrace Jack, cup his face and whisper apologies for all of this. But, years ago, Kent promised himself he wouldn’t enter Jack's space anymore—both to respect Jack's boundaries and to resist temptation; he's hardly about to make any moves now. 

If Kent could take back those last words, he's not sure he would. Yes, it would undo the pain he just caused, but also, ignoring that there are more delicate ways to phrase it, it is the truth. They're both fully grown men; Jack can handle the truth.

There was a time when Kent would have fought tooth and nail against anyone who hurt Jack, truth or not. But it's pretty hard to continue fighting for someone when they wouldn't give you the time of day for years without end. That's the kind of thing that fucks a guy up, just a little. And Kent's gained enough self-worth to not castigate himself for moving on with his life and putting himself first.

Kent spots the slightest shift in Jack's face as he dons his robot mask of indifference and goes on the offensive. Well, tries to, anyways, but Kent is not interested in a repeat of their morning fight, a repeat of any of their fights. He cuts Jack off with, "Don't. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

Sighing, Kent slumps on the couch and runs a hand through his hair, disturbing it from how he slicked it back in the morning. This is a mess. He and Jack have always been a beautiful disaster, but this is something else. Kent drinks some of his tea to hopefully wash down whatever the fuck is caught in the back of his mouth.

"What did you mean it like?" Jack bites, a slight edge behind his wooden exterior.

It's not like Kent hasn't thought about telling Jack or even practiced what he might say. But that was all playing pretend, all fantasy, with no effect on reality. Kent realizes his hand is still on his head, fingers tightly gripped in his hair. He forces himself to unclench and bring his hand back to his lap.

The hollowed-out feeling that's been creeping up and into Kent, like the floor might drop out from below him, never mind that he's sitting on a very solid and comfortable couch; like he's an empty shell that will shatter with a little tap on the shoulder; like he's just a bunch of broken porcelain pieces held together by a glue that's quickly dissolving—it's fear, Kent suddenly realizes as he shivers. 

He's afraid—terrified, really—of speaking to Jack.

What Kent has been trying to wash away with sips of tea isn't blood or petals caught in his throat, but bile. And while the tea does wash away the acrid taste with each sip, it does nothing to truly soothe his stomach. How can it, when Kent is about to upchuck from emotional distress and not anything he ate? It's ridiculous to be afraid, but there is a certain familiarity in keeping cards close at hand.

Secrets have a way of growing roots so deep that they become a part of a person's identity. Somewhere, somehow, somewhen, this one has become a part of Kent, and telling someone is akin to exposing his very innermost parts, a terrible vulnerability. And there might be things Kent trusts Jack with, but not hurting Kent isn't one of them. Theirs is a history so fraught with fighting that Kent often wonders how exactly he fell in love with Jack again. 

He wonders how many of his feelings Jack can read. Can Jack tell that bile and phlegm are mixing at the back of Kent's throat, a disgusting fluid that keeps creeping up no matter how many sips of tea he takes? Can Jack tell that Kent has a worse secret than currently having hanahaki? Can Jack tell that Kent wants to hole up in his room and wait for all this to blow over, or maybe skate and skate and skate until his legs give out?

Jack is still waiting for an answer. 

“Your…” Kent swallows and takes a long gulp of tea. “Your eleven years mark wasn’t completely off."

"What do you mean?"

Kent grimaces at what he's about to reveal—he's already said more than he ever wanted to. But confronting vulnerability was on his list of emotional development criteria from his therapist and telling Jack will count, right? 

"This isn't the first time I've had hanahaki.” Before Jack gets time to process, Kent drops the second bomb. “Over you. It's only because we're friends now that I fell in love again.”

Once Kent starts, the rest of the words spill out, like water from a freshly-broken dam. 

“I was in love with you back then. I had hanahaki then, too. Well, after I got drafted, anyway. But I got over you. Maybe not particularly of my own choice, and definitely not of my own power, but god damned if I didn't get over you.” 

Kent thinks about how long he’d waited before getting the minimally-invasive lung surgery that turned out not to even leave a permanent scar. He’d held out hope for so long that if he just did better at hockey, if he could just get Jack to look at him, he could win Jack’s love. But that isn’t how love works, and after the fiasco at that Samwell party, Kent had finally faced the truth and gone for the operation as soon as the season ended. 

“And then I was good. And healthy. And happy,” Kent says, even though the happy part is a bit of a stretch. 

He can’t stop here. Kent draws in a quick breath to steady himself and continues talking. “We started texting again after so many years, but it somehow felt like we had picked up as if the bad shit hadn’t happened. Which was partly us letting past dogs lie like mature adults, but also partly us ignoring the elephant in the room.” 

They fell into a comfortable routine, this past year, and it was pretty much what Kent envisioned they would have before the draft—keeping track of each other’s scores and texting good luck before games, trading jokes and funny stories, even worrying over Jack after the Falconers lost. He offers as part of his explanation, “You’re a different person now and so am I, but I could still see the parts of who you used to be and I guess those happened to be parts I used to love.”

Kent can still picture the sequence of events in which he doomed himself, but he’s spilling his guts out here, not his heart, so he doesn’t talk about Jack laughing at a joke he made or the twinkling in Jack’s eyes as they looked at each other. He doesn’t talk about how his heart skipped a beat, and in that beat all other people and things faded out of Kent’s focus.

Instead, he says, “There was this moment, at Tater’s summer barbecue. You were standing next to the grill and arguing with Finny about optimal flavoring for steaks and he was listing out a dozen spices that should go in a rub and you were arguing that salt and pepper were enough if the flavor of the meat was good. And you made that little wrinkle with your nose, the one you always made when Bob grilled steaks and Alicia doused hers with au jus.”

He stops before he bleeds his heart out with words like _I wanted to know if you made all the same expressions still_ or _I want to learn new ones you make for the things that I never got to experience with you._ He doesn’t talk about the surge of affection he felt, knowing Jack’s firm opinions on steak had stayed strong through the years. 

“I left with a tickle in my throat that I thought was summer allergies, but a week later, I was coughing up petals. Again.” Kent takes of sip of his tea to quell the tickle surfacing in response to his thoughts. 

Kent has, over the years, come to accept his illness, however begrudgingly, however long it took him. There was never any point in holding onto the resentment that would rot him from the inside out until bitterness defined him. 

He tells Jack as much. “It’s not your fault I’m sick—it’s not anybody’s fault I’m sick. It just is. But you can’t fix it either.” 

* * *

There's a dull ringing in Jack's ears, the white noise after exposure to too much sound ensnaring his senses as blood rushes to his head. Strange, since he's not crowded in the confines of a locker room after a deafening crowd or in a quiet car after leaving a concert. 

There's nothing loud here, at Kent's house—except the way there is a _thump-thump,_ _thump-thump_ in his chest so hard that he can feel it in his ears

He can feel his lungs expanding and contracting to bring him air, but if everything is in working order, why does Jack feel breathless and drowning? There's a tingle, an unscratchable itch spreading from Jack's fingertips as he stares blankly at Kent.

 _Thump-thump, thump-thump._ In, out, in, out. There's still a faint buzz that won’t go away, even though Jack knows it’s all in his head.

Jack curls his fingers into the cloth of his pants. All of his body parts seem to be working. But surely his ears aren't—surely he's misheard Kent.

"I don't understand. That's—you, can you repeat that?" A distant part of him knows exactly what he heard, but processing the content is an entirely different matter. It's a task so out of reach Jack doesn't even know where to begin looking.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump._

Jack tries to count his heartbeats as he weathers Kent's glare with a serene poise that has more to do with shocked paralysis than any internal calm. His senses are both dulled and heightened. His serenity isn't that of a rippleless pond, but rather a disturbed puddle during rainfall—outwardly peaceful, but ultimately a chaotic riot of water splashing every which way.

"I know you know what I said. Just because you don't understand doesn't mean I'm going to repeat it."

Kent is all bluster—he's making aborted attempts at bouncing his leg, wavering between fidgeting and forced stillness, betraying a nervousness not easily discernible from the bitterness he emanates. 

Huh, maybe Jack _can_ read Kent. 

As Kent taps his fingers along his bottle of magic tea—which Jack really does want to know about, when they have more time—Jack spares a thought for how Kent really feels. Just one, because he needs the rest of his mind to continue processing.

 _It's only because we're friends now that I fell in love again._

The first part of the sentence makes sense—it probably wouldn't be a true enough love for hanahaki to develop if Kent had fallen for an ideal that Jack portrayed, or for memories of the past. Being friends with someone allows you to know them better—it's a standard foundation for love. It's that last part—last word, really—that had tripped Jack up like an unexpected crack in the sidewalk.

_I was in love with you back then._

Back then—the Q, Juniors. When life was hockey and Jack came as one half of a matched set.

 _I had hanahaki then, too—well, after I got drafted anyway_.

How can someone rewrite what Jack had thought to be set in stone? A cynical part of Jack thinks about how history is written by the victors, and aren't we all victors of our own life? 

_But I got over you. Maybe not particularly of my own choice, and definitely not of my own power, but god damned if I didn't get over you_.

Not of his own power—does Kent mean surgery that removes the hanahaki growth? And any feelings that had catalyzed the growth in the first place? 

This is what Jack is stuck on, like a skipping record, like the spinning rainbow mouse wheel on his Macbook—maybe things will continue, maybe everything will crash into pieces. The petty part of him wants to scream that he was right, crow to the heavens that his eleven years guess had been on the mark—just a slightly different, prior mark. 

Most of Jack just wants to understand what's happening. 

He's not even sure why he's so—everything about this. Panic, confusion, shock, denial course through his veins, doing laps around and around like it’s a race and one emotion could win out, but until one does, all of them vie for dominance. His mind is a jumbled mess on the verge of flat-lining into silence. 

"Oh," Jack says. He's not sure why he says it, now, after he's asked for clarification and gotten nothing in return. A thousand questions bubble up, but Jack keeps a tamper on that. 

_There was this moment, at Tater’s summer barbecue._

He remembers the barbeque Kent is talking about. It was full of hockey players who were summering in New England, Kent included. The amount of meat they collectively ate their way through was enough to feed an entire urban block of regular people. He doesn’t particularly remember arguing with Finny, but he does remember Kent. 

Kent waded through the crowd, trading fist bumps and shoulder claps as if he intimately knew every person there. Of course, Jack was familiar with (almost) all of them, but he didn’t strike the same sort of casual intimacy despite actually being in the same conference with most of the people there. Kent asked about pets and family members and hobbies like he was everyone’s best friend, while Jack stayed on safe topics like the next season and food and the few TV shows he has time to follow in the summer. 

Jack also remembers Kent’s summer freckles standing out across the bridge of his nose and the sun-bleached streaks running through artfully tousled hair. Remembers thinking how settled into his own skin Kent looked, in a way he hadn’t at 17. 

Kent doesn’t look so settled now, with the restless way he fidgets as Jack continues processing. 

It’s too much.

It’s too much, and Jack doesn’t even have a full story, he’s got bits and pieces that tell him enough to know he’s missing so much more. He already knows he’s going to be up into the early morning trying to fill in the gaping holes of it. 

But the past isn’t why he’s here. “Why are you so against the thought of us dating? Why can’t I—why can’t we try? Things are different now. We’re different now.” _I’m different now._

“I don’t buy the reason you’ve given so far for showing up here unannounced.” Kent shrugs with a haughtiness that rankles at Jack’s nerves. 

His words, spoken with such ease, are an unexpected blow. Does he think Jack has, has, nefarious reasons to be here? 

Jack centers himself by remembering Maman’s words, her soothing voice just a few hours ago. _Lies beget lies, truth begets truth. Sometimes you have to give a little to get something back_. 

“I spent so long burying my feelings for you, ignoring you, that every time I was reminded of you, they became more distorted and foreign. In my mind, you became something ugly and unrecognizable. It wasn’t pleasant. I didn’t even know you were dying. I don’t want things to be like that, not again. Last time, I shut you out. What I’m asking from you now is that you don’t do the same to me.”

It’s not the most apt comparison Jack has ever made, but it’s how he feels. 

He’s here because if Kent had space, had time, he’s certain Kent would lie. If Jack had texted, Kent would have ignored it for a few days and responded with a deflection like, ‘haha sorry, busy few days w media. don’t be silly, how could it be you?’ And then Kent would ask if he’s seen the most recent episode of Cutthroat Kitchen and that would be that.

Maybe Jack is eleven years too late to continue a story full of pages he didn’t know existed, but it’s practically been shoved in his face, and he wants to know if it’s already been finished as a tragedy or if there’s hope for a happier ending. 

It hurts a little, the glimmer of suspicion in Kent’s eyes, the distrust spelled out on pursed lips. But seeing those also makes Jack more determined. “Let’s go on a date,” he says. 

Kent scoffs immediately. “Now?” 

“Yeah.”

“With the paps on my ass?” Kents sounds as though he thinks Jack has forgotten. 

“We’ll stay in.” 

“Don’t you need to get back to Providence?” 

Jack does, in fact, need to return, and also doesn’t have a return flight. He waves this off. Kent isn’t saying yes, but he’s also not saying no. “That’s not an answer, Kent. Will you go out with me?”

“For a date. In my own home.”

Jack nods. Dates in the house are familiar territory. “For a date in your home.” 

Kent looks incredulous and amused, like he’s humoring Jack. “Okay, fine, yes.”

“Perfect. Go take a nap and meet me back here at seven.” 

That elicits a sharp snort from Kent, but he does as Jack says, muttering to himself as he retreats to his bedroom. 

He’s definitely humoring Jack, but one date is all Jack needs. Kent is already in love with him—Jack just has to charm him into letting them have their second chance. 


	3. Chapter 3

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 yr  
KENT PARSON JUST CAMR OUT  
12 Replies 90 Retweets 635 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 yr  
***CAME OUT 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈  
4 Replies 13 Retweets 85 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 yr  
20GAYTEEN FTW  
3 Replies 42 Retweets 223 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 yr  
Fuck fuccc alksdjaslkdas  
1 Reply 4 Retweets 20 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 yr  
Which of you BITCHES still sending parser the fanfic ya need to STAHP  
8 Replies 39 Retweets 152 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 yr  
Holy shit wtfffffff I NEED to know who parse just PROPOSITIONED duringf his coming out presswer ACES PR CENSOR Y DO U HATE ME  
5 Replies 33 Retweets 197 Likes

* * *

**Flower Power 29** @eflowerz · 2 yr  
Who do you think Parse would bang AKA DID HE SAY SID OR SEGS???  
25 Replies 42 Retweets 223 Likes

**Flower Power 29** @eflowerz · 2 yr  
HERE is the fucking golden clip where parse fucking SHUTS DOWN ppl still asking him about zimmermann and also essentially asks someone with a ONE SYLLABLE S NAME to call him  
vid.twitter/iwm8Mj  
109 Replies 673 Retweets 4.1k Likes

* * *

_Transcription from a clip of Kent Parson’s Coming Out Conference in June 2018_

Reporter F: What are you hiding that you won’t deny the allegations between you and Jack Zimmermann?

Parson: Other than that these rumors are from when we were underaged and for that reason alone should be ignored? Well, denying it would break the hearts of my fans who write the steamy fan fiction and you know I love my fans.

Reporter F: Fan fiction? Do you read this fan fiction?

Parson: Nah, I’m not into reading about myself, it’s a little weird because I’m me. But sometimes I click the links people send and read the little descriptions. Like the tags or whatever. There’s some spicy shit. I think I’m getting more action in fiction than in real life.

Reporter F: Well, that’s—

Parson: I’m just saying. If NHL locker room orgies are happening, I haven’t been invited to them. But S***, if you’re watching this—

Dougle: Next question.

* * *

_September 26th, 2020_

Kent wakes to streaks of orange and yellow from the dying sunset outside his window. For one glorious moment, he thinks everything has been a horrid fever dream.

But the tickle in his throat is real, as are the faint sounds of Jack bustling around in his kitchen.

God damned if Kent doesn’t want to turn back the clock. Just a little bit. Not even to before falling ill again. Just a single groundhog day reset is all he needs. Twenty-four hours ago, his life was fine. The team was doing great. He was in peak physical condition, ignoring the chronic illness—which wasn’t the kind to be ignored, but Kent has years of somewhat rusty but still valuable experience managing it.

Things have spiraled massively out of control in such a short period of time that Kent is tempted to roll over in bed and pretend today is still yesterday.

He twists in his sheets, careful not to disturb Kit and Purrs who joined him at some point, and relishes the slide of soft cotton against his skin, giving himself until his wakeup alarm chimes to rest a few moments longer.

When it does, Kent rolls out of bed and into his bathroom to confront the mess that is his appearance.

There’s time for a quick shower that leaves him looking and feeling less dead. He’s got no idea what Jack prepared for their “date,” but slacks that show off his ass and a button-down that perfectly frames his shoulders are a good bet for clothes, and a little bit of product in his hair never goes amiss.

Jazz music trickles in—Jack’s old man music. Kent has never cared for it, always needed a faster beat to match his frenetic internal energy, but there’s a nostalgic familiarity to it that soothes the tension from his back.

Now or never, and Kent doesn’t do never.

The food smells divine, the scent of herbs, cheese, pasta, and chicken turning his dining room into an Italian restaurant. There’s a vase holding a large bouquet of wildflowers—Kent’s favorite—on the kitchen counter. The lightning is at the right balance of romantic mood while still being able to see each other’s expressions.

And then there’s Jack, who has the nerve to look effortlessly handsome in the soft light.

Kent’s stomach does that annoying, swoopy-buzzy thing. Not butterflies; it’s more like wasps.

“‘Sup,” Kent says, because any words are better than staring in silence.

The thing is, he’s dreamed about this. Not the _accidentally revealed his illness on live TV_ part, but the _Jack and he get back together_ part. Literal dreams in the night, a mish-mash sequence of happy moments that, upon waking, fade into fragments Kent tried to hold onto until it hurt too much.

He let go of pipe dreams a long time ago and doesn’t know what to do now that he’s starring in one.

“Kent,” Jack says.

Jack doesn’t seem to have more to say and they stare at each other while Miles Davis croons in the background.

It’s stupid, really, how awkward they’re being, and the absurdity of everything makes Kent want to laugh.

He doesn’t laugh, because Jack would take offense and that’s not the goal for tonight. Technically, it’s never the goal, but that has also never stopped Kent from achieving it all the time.

“We’re both overthinking this,” Kent says as he runs his hand through his hair, realizing only as gel coats his fingers that he’s disturbed the style. “What’s for dinner?”

His question is more a conversation starter than a genuine question, since all of it is set up on the table. They sit down as Jack launches into a description of the food that makes it sound as good as it smells.

The first bite Kent takes quickly becomes a second and third. It’s delicious, and exactly what Kent needs after the day he’s had. Kent wants to know how he didn’t know about this restaurant Jack ordered from.

There’s a lull in conversation as both of them focus on eating food, but the silence is better this time. He’s reminded of how they would stuff their faces after practice in the Q, the only words passing between them an occasional garbled phrase about hockey.

Food and hockey might have been the only things they could always agree on.

“You looking forward to the new season? Rookies fitting in okay?” Kent asks as he serves himself a second portion of the pasta.

Jack perks up. “Brooky and Steamer are really adjusting well, so far. Snowy’s retirement had everyone bummed out, but Skip worked hard all last season and is going to be solid in goal.”

“Brooky is the fast one, yeah?” Fast, with deadly precision, as far as Kent can remember.

Nodding, Jack says, “Yep.” For a moment, Kent thinks that’s all Jack will say. But Jack surprises him, offering more details. “Does everything fast: skates fast, talks fast, eats fast. We have a bet going on if his tongue will get him into trouble chatting someone up first, or if he’s going to choke on the food he shovels down like it’s a competition.”

The Jack he knew wouldn’t have cared for silly bets like this, would have insisted on focusing on hockey. It’s nice to hear about the camaraderie he shares with his team. Jack always seemed to fit in nicely with the Falcs, but it's the little things like this that indicate to Kent how Jack is better at bonding with his team.

It was never something that never happened at Rimouski, despite all of Kent’s efforts to make Jack more sociable, and part of him is sad he can’t see Jack at ease with his teammates now.

Kent offers a few words about his own rookies before they move onto what shows they’ve been watching.

“You been keeping up with the Great British Bake Off?” Kent asks, knowing Jack started watching it with Bittle and continued watching after they separated. “It’s still weird with no more Paul, even if he was a creep.”

“I don’t know what the producers are doing, continuing the show after that scandal.”

“They were thinking people would still watch it and they could continue to make money.”

“The contestants were a hot mess in the first episode. No good judges and no good contestants. The viewership is going to tank.”

Kent rolls his eyes. “It’s only been a few episodes, give them a chance.” Jack is probably right, though. The newest season was more of a cash-grab than a celebration of baking talent. “What else have you been watching?”

“Oh, there was a new documentary on Netflix.” Jack sips on his wine but doesn’t offer any more details.

“What on?” Kent asks.

“Aztec society and accomplishments before their destruction at the hands of the Spanish.”

“Was it…any good?” Kent doesn’t know all that much about the Aztecs or the Spanish Conquest other than that it had happened a couple hundred years ago, but there must be a lot of interesting stuff that occurred.

“Yes. It gave a lot of insight on the technologies lost and didn’t sugarcoat how set back humanity was by their conquest,” Jack replies, again with the single sentence summary.

Kent waits for an example of a lost technology that never comes. He feels like he’s pulling teeth. How does Jack have such strong opinions on a baking reality show but so few words about this new documentary? History had been the one class Jack had cared for in school and then he went on to major in it for college.

He kicks Jack lightly from under the table and raises an eyebrow. “You know you’re supposed to talk about your interests on dates, right?”

“Oh, I figured you wouldn’t be interested.” Jack waves it off with a casual air that almost makes Kent frown.

Sure, as teenagers, Kent complained if Jack talked too much about whatever cool new facts he just learned, but that was mostly to keep himself from looking like a besotted puppy. Kent didn’t—and still doesn't—have much interest in the subject, but liked the way Jack’s eyes lit with passion, how animated his voice was, and the sheer exuberance that radiated from him in those moments. The deeper they went into any topic, the more likely it would be that Jack could notice Kent wasn’t paying attention to some Dowager Empress of China Jack was talking about, but rather Jack himself.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care. You’ll know if I’m not interested.” Kent kicks him gently again. “Tell me about the Aztecs.”

There’s a flicker of something in Jack’s expression as his eyes soften for a moment, but it’s gone too quickly for Kent to get a read on it.

Jack lights up as he talks about all the ways Tenochtitlan was more advanced than any European city at the time. While Kent can better appreciate history now than he could as a kid, he still spends most of his time studying the way Jack looks when he talks about something he cares about.

Partway through an explanation of floating gardens, Kent hooks his foot around Jack’s ankle without thinking about it. He considers pulling back, but then Jack, without pausing in his description of artificial islands, flexes his own foot up Kent’s calf for a moment before leaving their legs entangled.

Kent knows this can’t last—because he learned to stop expecting things from Jack a long time ago—and enjoys the solid feel of Jack against him. He lets himself stop resisting familiar patterns that time could never have worn away and enjoy the night.

“It’s now Mexico City. A lot of it has been lost, but the ruins are considered a World Heritage Site and form the historic center of the city.”

As Jack goes to grab dessert and clean plates, and as Kent laments the loss of warmth against his foot, Kent tells him about the most recent Marble Olympics on YouTube. It’s clear that Jack doesn’t get the appeal of a completely random-chance fake sport, but he lets Kent talk about it with minor chirping.

Dessert is decadent chocolate lava cake that cannot be nutritionist-approved, but Kent gives zero fucks from first delicious bite to last. It takes all of his self-control to not lick the tin at the end.

“Okay, I give you props. You do know how to plan a date. Or at least find fucking bomb food.” Kent says, after giving his fork a final lick.

Jack gives a satisfied grin but hesitates before saying, “You could see how the rest of my date planning skills are. If we dated.”

Back to reality.

Kent rolls his eyes and deflects. “That’s the compelling reason to date you?”

“I’m also charming and intelligent, and I have a great ass.”

“You _are_ a great ass.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have one too.” Jack smirks.

Now that he’s had a taste, Kent wants this, wants all of everything. He wants the Jack that rambles on about random things and the Jack that makes witty remarks, and yes, Jack’s ass. Kent would really like to get his mouth on Jack’s ass. Years of pro hockey have been very kind to it.

“So is this date over or do you have more planned?” Kent doesn’t want this to end yet.

“We could watch some TV,” Jack says with a wink.

Watching TV is totally a euphemism, like Netflix and Chill, because they don’t even make it onto the couch before they’re making out like horny teenagers.

The arm of Kent’s couch is the perfect height such that a taller man sitting on it brings him down to Kent’s height, and Kent takes full advantage of this by shoving Jack onto it and settling in between his spread legs.

Jack tastes like chocolate and still kisses with a single-minded intensity that leaves Kent breathless.

This is so much better than any of Kent’s memories or dreams that he’s already floating on a high.

Kent runs one hand along Jack’s firm back muscles and uses the other to squeeze the part of the previously-advertised great ass that he can reach. There’s a slight give under Kent’s fingers that makes him want to see what would happen if he sank his teeth into it.

Jack has a firm grip on Kent’s waist, where he’s rubbing distracting circles with his thumb and which he uses to draw Kent impossibly closer. The warmth of being wrapped up in Jack makes Kent want more, but he reins in the desire and focuses on the heat of Jack’s mouth.

Jack trails kisses along the side of Kent’s jaw, before sucking on his pulse point in a way that leaves Kent whining a breathless “fuck.”

“You wanna?” Jack whispers into Kent’s neck before biting down. Kent refuses to call the sound he just made a whimper.

It takes Kent longer than it should to realize Jack is asking if he wants to fuck. In his defense, he knows that Jack knows his neck is highly sensitive.

Kent squeezes Jack’s ass. “I’m no cheap date, putting out on the first one.” They both know it’s a blatant lie, but he doesn’t get called out on it.

“Are there gonna be more?” Jack asks, licking the spot that’s definitely going to be a hickey tomorrow.

Who is Kent to deny what Jack wants, when Jack is what _he_ wants? It’s going to end in disaster, but that’s how everything Kent does ends. “Yes, fine. Let’s date.”

Jack draws back abruptly. “Really?” he asks, with such earnestness that Kent’s only response can be to kiss him again until their lips are red and shiny.

They have to talk about this, even though Kent wants to full-body cringe at the thought of continuing to be open and discussing _feelings_. But really, it has to happen, so Kent reluctantly pulls back even though he’s half-hard and pretty sure Jack is in the same state.

Kent trails his hand along Jack’s arm and holds his hand, keeping a point of contact between them.

“How’s this going to work, Mr. Great At Planning Dates?” The logistics trip Kent up as much as the actual thought of dating Jack. The season is about to begin, and dating is hard enough as a hockey player even when living in the same city as someone. Trying to align schedules with another hockey player who lives across the country seems impossible.

“Erm.” Jack looks like a deer in the headlights.

“You haven’t thought about it.” Kent narrows his eyes. His breathing is starting to even out again as he re-enters reality.

“I...have.” Jack’s tone inspires exactly zero confidence.

Kent raises an eyebrow.

Jack protests, “I was busy getting tonight set up. And, I’ve done long distance relationships before.”

“With the college boyfriend? Who was a couple of hours’ drive away? Who it didn’t work out with?” There’s a reason professional athletes tend to end up with childhood sweethearts—women who have been there from the start and didn’t have to be wooed in stolen moments during a hectic season schedule. Kent ignores the voice that says _he’s_ Jack’s childhood sweetheart.

Jack twists his mouth. If he wasn’t up against a couch, Kent thinks he would probably try pulling away.

Kent rubs his thumb along the back of Jack’s hand in pseudo-apology, but presses the issue. “We can’t even communicate well in person. We’re going to be busy all the time and our schedules are going to conflict. I don’t intend to advertise our relationship, so we’ll have to sneak around. Do you really think this is a good idea?”

“I think—” Jack grips Kent’s hand and seems to center his thoughts. “I _know_ I want to try. Kenny, I want to try.”

The warmth of Jack’s hand and the soft way he says _Kenny_ are almost enough to pull him in. Kent pictures himself stepping in again, resting his forehead against Jack’s, kissing him as sweetly as the way he just said Kent’s name.

Kent resists because they’re not seventeen, and Kent isn’t a lost planet trapped in Jack’s gravitational pull, he’s his own sun.

“Okay. So, what? A lot of texting and calls and video chats?” Kent doesn’t think all the Skype sex in the world is enough to make Jack fall in love with him. “Dates when our teams play each other?” He lets skepticism be heard here. Kent can’t imagine there wouldn’t be tension during those times. “Visits on the rare time we get off?”

“All of it. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Kent thinks that’s a lot easier for Jack to say because he’s not the one who’s sick, but, well, in the grand scheme of things, this doesn’t change Kent’s plans. He’s going to manage his illness and play hockey the best he can. There are three Stanley cups under his name and two of those won while he was sick.

“One step at a time.” Kent’s probably signing up for heartbreak and disappointment, but even he can’t ignore the hope that bubbles in him like freshly-opened champagne.

Jack has a red-eye flight back to Providence, but waves off Kent’s offer to drive him to the airport. Kent starts cleaning up as Jack goes to pack his bags and uses the opportunity to sniff the flowers Jack bought. The mix of light, floral scents takes Kent back to how his mother would buy the cheapest bouquets on sale just to have pretty flowers to liven up their drab apartment. This bouquet isn’t a wilty bundle from a grocery store, but a huge bundle of expertly-arranged flowers. Kent loves it because it’s a sign that Jack remembers Kent telling him about his mom, and it isn’t just Jack buying flowers in accordance with common romantic gestures.

They make out against the back of Kent’s front door until Jack really does need to leave. As Kent closes the door behind Jack, he wonders if he’s making a big mistake, but he can’t bring himself to regret it.

* * *

**4 Types of Magic Kent Parson Might Have**   
Buzzfeed   
September 30, 2020  
Anika Beck

If you haven't heard already, top NHL player Kent Parson of the Las Vegas Aces recently revealed that he has hanahaki, which only affects people who meet three certain requirements: a magical core, feelings of unrequited love, and exposure to hanahaki spores. While we won't be so crass as to speculate on who he is so unlucky in love with (we're looking at you, TMZ and Deadspin), we are here to bring you some thoughts on what types of magic he might have.

All of you probably learned about the near extinction of magic that happened thousands of years ago. But did you know modern humans can still possess trace amounts of magic? Nobody can utilize this magic to any noticeable degree, except possibly the uncontacted peoples—tribes that have lived in isolation for thousands of years. Many articles theorize that members within these communities still have enough magic to actively affect their environment. There are also the typical conspiracy theories, which we've covered here. People _can_ harness magic from plants and animals to a very limited degree.

Only an estimated 1 in 10,000 people have enough magic to even lean towards an affinity. In the old days, mages could cast spells regardless of affinity if they were powerful enough, but alas, they were all pretty much murdered. Affinities are attributes a personal leans towards, but mean little in practical terms. Still, people like to think about them.

Coming back to Kent Parson (who by the way, is on this year's most eligible gay bachelor's list). Given that he has enough of a magical core to sustain hanahaki, he likely has enough magic to have an affinity. We've narrowed down the four most likely options:

  1. Physical magic—a catch-all category for magics affecting the body's physical abilities, such as speed, strength, endurance, and flexibility. Bereskir of Nordic origins used to convert energy from animals to bolster their endurance magic. Parson, as one of the fastest players in the league (click here for a match where he scored twice in one minute), could certainly have speed magic.
  2. Ice magic—one common manifestation of elemental magic is ice magic. Back in the old days, you might be able to freeze water or carve glaciers if you had ice magic. (Yes, like Elsa.) Now, maybe you just like the cold, or you might die from hypothermia slightly slower than the average person if someone dumped you naked in Antarctica.
  3. Animal magic—specifically relating to cats. Parson has an Instagram set up for his two precious cats and has previously claimed to understand them. Perhaps he really is better at interpreting his cats' meows and body language. Animal mages of old could command animals to do their bidding. Now, it requires years of dedication and work to understand them—just look at Jane Goodall as an example.
  4. Charm magic—this used to be a common mental magic, and is still common today. Those with charm affinities are naturally charismatic—several notable politicians and celebrities are confirmed to have it. Parson has always had a strong and savvy social media presence—perhaps that charm of his is magical.



There are still ways to detect different types of magic, such as using closely-guarded artefacts or making a litmus test out of magical plants. Certain institutions will test you for a frankly exorbitant fee, but some circles of society take pride in magical status, despite magic’s lack of utility.

These are our thoughts about it. Let us know what you think is most likely—or what kind of magic we missed—in the comments below!


	4. Chapter 4

**saturated sunrise** @stormyweather · 2d   
I know I left hockey fandom but was anyone??? gonna tell me??? Kent Parson has hanahaki??? or was I supposed to find out by seeing a SHIT TON of new kudos on my fic from fucking 2014 on my old account and then trying to figure out why  
1 Reply 1 Retweet 17 Likes

* * *

_October 2020_

Jack doesn’t remember how he used to fill up his time.

He must have done something—listen to podcasts or watch tapes or work out. Now his days are suddenly filled with Kent, but he doesn’t mind it. It reminds him of the best parts of Juniors, being wrapped up in Kent and in hockey.

A decade ago, every single text from Kent had been an unwelcome reminder of reality. Every text, every call, every voicemail unreturned, even if Jack had masochistically read and listened to each one before deleting them.

Now, Jack takes pictures of the sunrise from his floor-to-ceiling living room window and sends them with a variant of _good morning_ when he knows Kent is awake. Kent sends him back pictures of his cat and random things he finds when he wanders around Vegas in his free time.

They tell stories of funny or stupid things that happen during practice. They chirp each other over the phone and swap protein shake recipes.

There’s an occasional sext, but they don’t quite get to full-on sexting or phone sex in the couple weeks that pass. Jack remembers the way he told Bittle when they first started dating that what he had with Kent was just physical, just hockey. It was a lie to both Bittle and himself, but Jack wonders if that’s related to how Kent steers them away from things getting too heated—if Kent thinks Jack only wants him for the sex, not the emotional connection, and is testing those boundaries.

Maybe Jack is thinking too hard about it. He certainly wakes up hard if he thinks too much about Kent and sex.

He and Kent squeeze in so much time together. Texts throughout the day, video calls when they can—it’s nice, in a way Jack never thought possible, even though they’ve been reconnected for a year now. 

Jack would normally have retreated from the world to have some peace and privacy after so much interaction but instead it feels right, like something missing has clicked into place.

He considers it good luck that his season starts off with a western roadie and the Aces are their third game—even when they lose 3-4 in Vegas.

Matches against the Aces have always been fraught, a fizzing tension in the air that’s palpable with every skid of his skate. There’s a background buzz in Jack’s head he can never shake, no matter how focused on the game he gets.

Not this time. There’s disappointment, yes, a heavy weight that squeezes him tighter than any celly he’s ever been crushed in, but it doesn’t wring him out like a wet towel the way it used to. Eighty-two games in the regular season and there’s no way to win them all.

Their lines are strong this year, and their first two games were wins. Jack shrugs off the loss in a way he would have been envious of even a few years ago.

The anxiety never goes away, and it isn’t even that it’s less than what he used to feel—it’s that Jack is stronger now, more adept at navigating turbulent waters.

It’s like when Jack almost drowned in the ocean. It was his first time going properly into the ocean, not just wading on the shoreline, and he was caught up in the fun of using a boogie board. A strong wave toppled him off the board, and between the pull of gravity, the push of the tides, and the tugging of his board strap on his leg, Jack couldn’t tell up from down in the water.

The ocean isn’t weaker, and neither is his anxiety. Jack’s just stronger now.

During post-game interviews, he’s so busy thinking up what they can improve on before their next game that a stray question catches him off guard.

A man shouts over the reporter who was slated to speak next. “What do you think about Kent Parson’s illness? Did you know?” 

Jack blinks, trying to identify which outlet the man is from, but can’t pick him out distinctly. “Pardon? That’s not related to tonight’s game.”

He dismisses the man and turns back to the reporter who was interrupted, a woman from a local Vegas media site, but the man calls out again, “Well, he was playing tonight. Don’t you think it’s relevant? What are you trying to hide?”

Security is moving in and there’s no reason for Jack to answer, but the spark of irritation from the first interruption flares upon the second and he finds himself saying, “Kent Parson scored two goals and an assist tonight. I think my team should be more focused on our defensive line than on speculating over someone’s private business.”

The man is removed, and the interview is wrapped up shortly.

The media refused to let go of the Zimmermann-Parson connection in whatever convenient version spun stories.. During Juniors, in between the abyss of anxiety he was slowly drowning in and the unscalable mountain of expectations he tried to climb, it filled him with pride to be part of a dynamic duo. He and Kent were so good they had a trademark move.

After the overdose, the link to Parse was a reminder of his failures, of his weakness. Zimmermann-Parson was a study in contrasts—the draft dropout and the draft overall first. In his rookie year, it was an annoyance, a reminder that all his accomplishments could never stand up on their own. He would always be connected to Parse, or his dad, and people would always see him as the kid who couldn’t hack it.

Their connection is inescapable, but Jack is no longer running from it—or from Kent.

It takes a little sweet-talking to get out of curfew, and there are a few suspicious glances from his teammates as he dodges them nursing their team sorrows in a swanky Vegas bar on the Strip, but he arrives at Kent’s house in one piece.

He doesn’t even have to knock this time before Kent is opening the door and letting him in.

“Good game, Zimms, but better luck next time.” Kent nudges him with his shoulder as he takes Jack’s bag from him to drop off at the edge of the bedroom hallway. “Or not, since we’ll still win.”

“You wish,” Jack says, and elbows Kent lightly in the ribs. They haven’t talked about where Jack would be sleeping. For all their constant communication, it was easy to avoid a lot of things.

Back in the kitchen, Jack catches the blue Gatorade Kent tosses him from the fridge and watches him bring out more of his magic tea.

“Does that have electrolytes in it?” Jack asks, concerned with Kent’s post-game hydration. He still doesn’t know what is in the magic tea, or if it’s sweetened. 

“You want to know what’s in the tea, don’t you? I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.” Kent smiles with a half-smirk that’s probably supposed to distract Jack from the strain in his voice. It doesn’t. “It’s cherry blossoms, the magical variety, preserved in salt and plum vinegar. So, there are some electrolytes in it.”

“Not enough,” Jack protests, but doesn’t push the issue. Kent knows by now how to take care of his body. Since Kent is finally opening up a bit about his illness, Jack asks, “How does it work?” 

“It’s kind of like, I don’t know, an antivenom effect. Like binds to like?” Kent shakes his head and takes a sip. Jack does the same with his Gatorade. “It’s made from the trees supposedly descended from the original tree that caused hanahaki. It slows down the progression of the disease.”

“Oh.” Jack’s not sure what else to say.

Kent laughs. It sounds genuine enough to Jack’s ears, but he wonders how real the laugh is, versus how much Kent is just trying to diffuse the tension.

“It tastes okay, but it gets old.” Kent smiles with his media-ready expression—he’s definitely trying to make things less awkward. “Last time, it got to the point that I could phantom taste it every time I drank something the same color.”

Last time—the time, the years Jack never knew Kent was sick.

“You want to watch something?” Jack offers a change in subject. He feels stupid, like he doesn’t belong in his own skin. Why are things so difficult now? They’ve been getting along fine for weeks now.

“Yeah, sure.”

Kent puts on a recap of the Sharks and Kings game, and while they both make remarks over it, it’s clear neither are invested.

They sit together on the couch, sides touching but nothing more than that. Jack is intimately aware of Kent’s presence next to him, the warmth that travels down where their arms and legs meet. He’s going to vibrate out of his skin restraining himself from seeking out more contact.

But why should he restrain himself?

They’re dating. This is the whole point.

Jack wraps his arm around Kent’s shoulder and pulls him in, not unlike how teenagers in romcoms snuggle in a darkened movie theater. Maybe Kent thinks the same thing, because he snorts softly and sort of nestles against Jack’s chest.

His nerves settle. That sense of rightness—for lack of a better word—returns to Jack. This is how things should be: Kent by his side. 

They’re both tired from the game and drifting off; Jack should suggest they go to bed soon, possibly—hopefully—the same bed.

As if in sync, they both take a sip of their drinks. Jack finishes off his Gatorade, now warm and overly sweet to his sleepy senses, while Kent chugs the remaining half-bottle of tea.

When Kent first sputters, Jack thinks he’s choking on his tea and shifts his arm to lightly clap on Kent’s back.

But Kent continues to gag, blindly setting his bottle down on the coffee table and covering his mouth as he coughs with awful phlegmy sounds.

It’s what Jack remembers sounding like when he had bronchitis, the winter after he turned nineteen. He was sick for three weeks with the most painful hacking cough, choking up mucus from his lungs so hard it would come up through his nose even though his sinuses were clear. He sometimes forced out coughs that brought sharp pains to the back of his throat just to have momentarily clear airways. It was a miserable experience that led him to religiously take extra vitamins whenever he even thought he might be sick.

But it’s not bronchitis Kent has.

An icy chill runs through Jack’s veins as he considers how miserable it must be to live with chronic illness. It’s not like he wasn’t previously aware, but Kent has blown off his concerns these past weeks with a blasé attitude. 

Jack knew, at nineteen, that his bronchitis would clear, especially after he started a round of antiviral medication. Kent lives with his condition getting worse and worse. 

Are flower petals more or less painful to cough up than phlegm?

Jack would think _more_ because they’re solid, but there’s no way whole petals can travel through tracheal branches. He has no idea how the magic works to manifest the flowers. 

It certainly sounds painful.

His hand lingers on Kent’s back—clapping on it doesn’t seem like the best idea, but he loathes to break away.

After a particularly sharp and wheezing hack that has Jack gripping tightly onto Kent’s shirt, the coughing fit ends.

“Are you—” _okay?_ Jack doesn’t finish his question, because it would be redundant. He lets go of Kent’s shirt in favor of rubbing up and down along his back in a hopefully soothing manner. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I—” Kent takes in a deep breath, holds for a few seconds, and tips his head back before exhaling. One of his hands his clenched tight and Jack thinks there are probably petals in his fist. Kent scrubs his face with his other hand before saying, “Wanna see some magic?” He sounds more confident than someone who just spent a few minutes hacking should.

Kent doesn’t look at Jack as he gets up and heads towards the kitchen.

Jack’s hand, his entire left side, feels cold. He trails after Kent like a plant seeking sunlight.

By the sink, Kent drops petals out of his fisted hand into a strainer. It hurts, how the disease that’s slowly killing Kent manifests as his mother’s cherry blossoms. Those flowers, that had given Jack solace, now give Kent grief.

There’s such a dissonance between that picnic day, when Jack ruffled petals out of Kent’s hair before pulling him into a headlock that had them wrestling on the grass, and now, that Jack shakes his head to clear his mind and focus on the present.

“It’s not real magic, like I’m not doing the magic. The magic is in the petals,” Kent says as he rinses the magic petals and pats them dry with a towel. He then pulls out a small piece of paper and rolls the petals up into a miniature joint.

“Are you going to smoke that?” Jack, on principle, doesn’t approve of the lung damage smoking causes, especially for pro athletes. Never mind that Shitty is his best friend. He’s also not sure fresh petals can burn. 

“Yeah. It’s a placebo effect, kind of. Not really.” Kent laughs, distinctly hollow-sounding this time. “It’s supposed to—trick the growth into thinking it’s already producing petals, prevent more from manifesting.” 

Jack follows Kent to the backyard and watches him light his joint.

There’s a chill in the autumn air that nips at his skin and makes his fingers twitch. He wants to wrap Kent up in his arms. He wants to take Kent’s hands—surely cold from his poor circulation despite being a professional athlete—into his own, the way he’s done a countless number of times in the rink and on cold nights in Rimouski.

He settles for slinging an arm around Kent’s tense shoulders.

Crickets chirp and a coyote howls in the distance. The trickling water from Kent’s pool waterfall is almost calming. Kent’s face is guarded as he takes slow drags of the joint.

Jack expects the smoke to smell floral, or perhaps sweetly pungent, but he doesn’t smell anything but burning paper. 

Jack takes this as an opportunity to study Kent’s features in the backlight from the house. The curve of his lips, the slope of his jaw, the darkened blue of his eyes. Despite his protests, Kent has always been pretty.

There are more freckles now, Jack thinks. And crow’s feet starting to develop. But Kent is as pretty as ever.

Kent’s eyes flit over to Jack’s for a heartbeat, catching him in his staring. He smirks and says with a wink, “You wanna take a picture?”

It has all the features of Kent’s arrogant bravado Jack has fallen for before, but Jack is better at reading through that mask these days. There’s the way Kent didn’t actually look at him as he spoke, and the way his shoulders remain tense under Jack’s arm through smoking the entire joint.

“No,” Jack says. It isn’t a picture of Kent he wants. “I’d rather just have you.”

Kent laughs, a little jagged and on the wrong side of happy.

They head back inside when Kent finishes the joint.

Jack still doesn’t know if he’s sleeping in the guest bedroom or with Kent. They’re both too exhausted to do anything more than sleep, but Jack can’t shake the feeling that Kent is closing off from him, now that he’s here in person.

“Wanna—” Kent yawns, adding to Jack’s sense of weariness, “see some more magic?”

“Sure,” Jack says.

“It’s kind of stupid to call it magic, like, I know there’s some magic energy transfer happening, but it looks and feels like a home remedy. Works, though, can’t complain about that.”

Kent leads Jack to his bedroom, pausing only for Jack to grab his bag from the entrance of the hallway, and thankfully answering Jack’s question before he has to actually ask.

Lying in the middle of the bed is Kit, who opens her eyes only briefly to chirp at them.

“Sorry, princess, you’re gonna have to move soon.” Kent turns to Jack. “You want the bathroom first?”

When they’re both done, Kent takes a moment to fawn over his cat. He massages her fur and says, “I know you’re very comfy here, but Jack’s a big boy who needs space.” She meows in protest but doesn’t struggle as Kent lifts her up and places her next to Puurs in a plush cat bed at the foot of the bed. 

Kent strips off his shirt and pants, leaving him in just boxers. Jack does the same.

Kent has filled out since their Juniors days, and Jack takes a moment to skim over the lithe muscle and pale skin being shown off. It’s not like Kent isn’t doing the same.

The air would be more charged if they weren’t both at the edge of falling face-down asleep into the pillows.

Kent breaks the moment by throwing a glass jar towards him that Jack easily catches.

“It’s a chest rub, like vaporub but handmade. Beeswax base from bees that pollinate the magical cherry blossom trees, with dried petals and extracted oils infused,” Kent explains. “And menthol.”

Jack looks down at the jar, labeled with instructions in several languages.

“Is this also supposed to do that not-placebo antivenom effect?” Jack asks. His forays into researching hanahaki had been more focused on symptoms and outcomes than on treatments.

“Hey, you’re catching on.” Kent grins, and for all the differences, Jack is transported to all the times they sneaked around as kids. Kent holds out a hand for the jar back.

Before Jack can think better of it, he finds himself saying, “I can help you put it on.”

Kent blinks, tilting his head in a confused fashion. He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t.

Was it such a weird offer to make? Probably. Jack’s about to take it back because really, what was he thinking, when Kent agrees.

Now Jack’s the one looking at him.

“Are you gonna...” Kent mimes unscrewing the jar when Jack doesn’t do anything. 

Jack gets with the program, reading the instructions and scooping out a small dollop. He puts the opened jar on the bed and warms up the rub in his hands.

“Where should I...?” Jack gestures vaguely at Kent’s upper body. Should he feel this nervous for such a simple thing? He’s given Bittle massages before, and he’s had sex with Kent before, and he’s not even the one about to get a balm applied to him.

Jack feels oddly vulnerable all the same.

Kent swallows, looking up at him with his concerningly pretty color-changing eyes—blue-gray right now—and says, “Neck and chest.”

Jack applies the balm to Kent’s neck first, running his hand over a pale column of skin. He can feel Kent’s pulse running as fast as his own. Knowing Kent is also affected by this settles Jack’s nerves and leaves him focused on rubbing the balm in. 

Nobody has ever accused Jack of giving less than 100% effort, and even now, he works diligently to spread a nice, even layer down Kent’s neck and chest. So what if maybe the circles he’s rubbing are slower than they need to be, or if his hand lingers on Kent’s skin?

He wants to—he wants.

The earlier tension dissipates. Jack skims his hand across Kent’s chest, thumb brushing over a nipple before wrapping around to his back and drawing Kent closer to him. There’s no resistance as he pulls Kent up for a kiss.

The warmth of the menthol residue on his hand is no comparison for the hot press of Kent’s body against him, and Jack wants more, more, more.

When they break for air, Kent is looking at him with lust-blown eyes, but before he can reel Kent in again, Kent yawns against his lips.

Jack snorts. “I’m that boring, eh? Let’s get some sleep.” As much as he would prefer otherwise, Jack is just as sleepy. He lets Kent steal one last kiss before drawing him under the sheets.

Sleep comes easily to them both.

* * *

Jack wakes before his alarm clock goes off, a consequence of still being on East Coast time and because the sunlight is trickling in through open blinds. It’s almost 7am and he needs to rejoin his team at the hotel. 

He…doesn’t want to move.

Kent is tucked underneath his arm and possibly drooling on the pillow they’re sharing in what should be an unattractive manner, but it somehow only manages to endear him to Jack.

In this neutral state, Kent looks peaceful, rested—not at all like he’s ill. Some of his hair is caught in the delicate sunlight that streams across the pillow, casting a fluffy halo around Kent’s head. Jack shifts his hand so he can run his fingers through the fine blonde strands.

It’s a sight he wouldn’t mind waking up to every day. He used to, for a hot minute, that summer they spent in each other’s arms before the draft. But after that, Jack didn’t let himself miss things like this—soft moments, liminal spaces between the grind. Maybe he should have. But he couldn’t bear to think about a lot of things back then, and it’s not something that can be changed now.

Part of him regrets all the time they spent apart, all the time they missed out on, but the rest of him knows that he needed the space and opportunity to figure himself out. He just hopes that he isn’t too late now.

Jack’s not sure if what he feels right now is the kind of love needed to heal Kent, but he hopes it is. When he tries to picture Kent in his mind, there’s a turbulent mix of burning bright lust and tender affection and fond exasperation churning bone-deep inside him. Kenny has always been able to draw out a fierce intensity, whatever Jack feels for him.

He half-expects Kent to wake up and accuse Jack of staring, but Kent has never been a morning person. Jack has all the time in the world to keep watching.

Well, not really. Stupid early morning departure.

“Kenny,” Jack says, shaking him gently. Kent makes a grumbling noise and smushes his face into the pillow. “Wake up.”

“Zimms?” Kent looks up at him with sleepy eyes. He sounds fragile in a way that’s halfway to breaking Jack’s heart.

“I have to go now.” Jack unwraps himself from around Kent and presses a kiss to his forehead. “You get more sleep.” 

“’kay,” Kent says, almost inaudible as he scoots into the warm spot Jack leaves behind. The cats that snuck back onto the during the night bed don’t move. 

Jack gets in one last glance at Kent, curled up in bed like the pictures he sends of a sleeping Kit, before getting ready and collecting his things. 

He lets himself out of Kent’s electronic-locking door and lets himself hope he’ll be enough.


	5. Chapter 5

_October 2020_

One day at a time. Even if this is going to blow up in his face, Kent can enjoy the journey, right? The beautiful scenery that comes before the car crash is still beautiful.

That’s not a real saying, but whatever, Kent can make his own wisdom.

What’s also beautiful is the Red Rock Canyons.

He and Jack are on a digital hiking date, which Kent thought was kind of stupid when Jack suggested it, but it’s going pretty well. They’re video chatting as Kent hikes through Red Rock and Jack through Blackstone Park.

The video quality is somehow not shitty, and Kent is treated to alternating views of Jack’s stupidly handsome face and the gorgeous fall-colored trees that Vegas never gets.

Jack laughs with a sound that echoes in Kent’s heart. “It’s nice here in winter, too. We’ll come when you visit.”

If Kent closes his eyes and ignores the tinny aspect of Jack’s voice, he can almost feel Jack next to him. A hand on his shoulder, the puff of Jack’s breath against his face as he leans closer. It’s not cold enough in Nevada to truly mimic all the times Kent dragged Jack out into the streets and meandering paths in Rimouski, but Kent feels the phantom of the memory anyway.

At least he gets to make new memories with Jack, for as long as Jack will have him.

* * *

_November 2020_

“Congratulations, Kent,” Dr. Ahmed says with a smile. “You’re in remission.”

A chill goes through Kent.

“What?” he asks, a little stupid. “Remission? That can’t be right.” 

She raises an eyebrow, but it’s the mildest of expressions—more compassion than judgment. “Here are the scans from today, last month, and two months ago.” She gestures to a series of x-ray printouts of his lung. “Given the rate of progression your disease has been taking, there should be noticeable growth between last month and today. Instead, today’s scan is comparable to two months ago. The growths are receding.”

Kent gapes at her in what must be an unattractive manner, but he doesn’t care about his appearance right now. He’s too busy trying to process words that don’t compute with his worldview.

When he doesn’t respond, Dr. Ahmed says, “You’ve been building a relationship with the person of your affections, right? Congratulations. We’ll continue monitoring your condition, of course, and I still want you to follow the treatment plan to manage your symptoms. Make sure to fill out your daily tracker. But while it’s early, you _are_ on the road to recovery.”

She goes on to say something about adjusting the frequency of his appointments and the strength of his treatments, but it’s like listening to sound underwater—muffled noises he can identify as words, but not which words. 

Goosebumps race down Kent’s arms and legs. Maybe the AC is turned up too high. Medical facilities should be a comfortable warmth, to accommodate all the people dressed in only paper gowns. Kent has never had a problem with the temperature before.

There’s a hammering in his chest as he tries to focus on what his doctor says because she can’t be right. She was wonderful at treating him in his younger years, and again for these past few months—he couldn’t ask for a better doctor. But even specialists can’t know everything.

Kent wouldn’t be struggling to breathe right this _moment_ if he was in remission. He can feel the growth on his lungs getting bigger with every breath he takes, twining around and squeezing the air out. His heart beats louder and louder. And louder.

Remission. How ridiculous. That would mean that Jack, that Jack—

“—out. In. Out.” Dr. Ahmed’s hand is on his shoulder and her face looks at him with concern. When did she cross over from her side of the desk?

Kent fists his pants with trembling hands, wrinkling the denim.

He is cold and light-headed, but away from the edge now.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Dr. Ahmed says as she steps back. “Would you like to talk to me about what’s on your mind?” Kent shakes his head. “Okay, I won’t push. Are you still seeing Melinda as your therapist?” Kent nods. “She would be a good resource to talk this over with. You’ve also mentioned being close to your sister and your teammates.”

What is there to talk about? The whole world losing its mind?

Kent shakes his head and brushes off her concerns.

Somehow, Kent makes it back to his house in one piece, ignoring the fact that he does not remember leaving the medical center or driving home or entering the doorway. But he’s standing in the living room, and Kit is leaning against his legs, meowing.

There’s a sort of numbness in his chest that makes an uncomfortable contrast to the squeezing feel of each heartbeat.

Kent stashes the envelope away in his office desk and picks up a whiny Kit. He plops himself on his couch and her on his chest. Her weight, at least, is a familiar feeling.

He strokes his darling princess’s fur—another familiar feeling, in the face of uncertainty.

Remission. It’s only possible if the person of his affections—if Jack—has started loving him back. Which means it’s impossible. Jack isn’t in love with him.

He can’t be.

He just—can’t.

They’ve only been—for not even that long—and it wasn’t supposed to—

Kit meows in complaint about how Kent’s hand has stopped. He resumes the petting.

Jack’s crazy “let’s date” plan was supposed to... not work. Kent knew it wouldn’t…and yet. There are medical scans in his office that indicate the plan is, in fact, working.

For now.

Because this won’t last. There’s no way it can. Kent has deceived Jack somehow, tricked him into being in love with him, but sooner or later, Kent will fuck up.

And Jack will wake up.

And Kent will be back to square one.

He can faintly recall Dr. Ahmed saying to bring this up with his partner, but that’s just nonsense. If he tells Jack, Jack will just feel bad once he inevitably falls out of love, and Kent doesn’t need that kind of pity party happening.

It’s much better to keep silent and wait. Then only Kent and his doctor will ever know the truth.

Kent can explore experimental treatments or the option of another surgery once the season is over. There’s no way he and Jack are going to last an entire season. He’ll say something or do something that will ruin the whole—everything.

It will suck—it will suck so much. He’ll probably have to cut Jack out of his life. Of course, once a second surgery removes the part of his lungs with the active magical growth and take his feelings away with it, he probably won’t even miss Jack. Much. Like last time.

Stupid magical cancer. Kent sinks his fingers deep into Kit’s fur and pretends his fingers aren’t shaking. There’s no way Kent can justify keeping their friendship after that. That would mean chancing falling in love a third time and contracting hanahaki _again_. A third surgery would be too much. He needs his lungs to play.

He can’t not have Jack _and_ not have hockey.

Thankfully, hockey doesn’t have to love him back.

* * *

Kent is a selfish bastard, he’ll be the first to admit it. He’s going to get healthier until Jack stops loving him, and that will buy him time as his disease reverses course.

His therapist, Melinda, keeps challenging him on why he thinks Jack will fall out of love. Kent cannot figure out a way to convince her of the truth, of how this was always going to be a failed experiment with a deadline.

“You’re worth being loved,” she says.

Kent gets it, he does. He is a person and all people have value.

“I know,” he tells her, skipping over _but not by Jack._

He has lived with the truth that Jack doesn’t love him for technically longer than he has loved Jack if he adds and subtracts the years correctly—a whole third of his life he’s lived with it.

There cannot be another truth.

* * *

_December 2020_

When he finally mentions things to his sister, she sees through his bullshit immediately.

“What’s your petal tracker show?” Carrie is blunt, as always. Why does she get to be the wise one when she’s younger?

Kent snaps her a picture of the calendar he keeps in his not-very-secret secret nightstand drawer.

It’s a single piece of paper with the twelve months on it and tracks how frequently he coughs up how many petals. His markings start in July. Both the frequency and amount of petals appear to accelerate in increasing rate before his treatment started working in August, when the rate of increase slowed. This progresses through September and October the same way, but the rate stagnates in November. 

It’s December now, and the symptoms have started to lessen. That’s gotta be a fluke, Kent tells himself. His resolve wavers when he looks at his tracker and the x-rays from his appointments but… how can he stop protecting a battered heart when it’s what he’s known for so long?

* * *

The NHL All-Star Weekend Restores Fantasy Draft  
_NHL regains spirit by returning to the fan-favorite format.  
_December 18th, 2020  
By Douglas Ny 

Due to popular demand, the NHL is bringing back the Fantasy Draft All-Star Game this season. This format was used from 2011 to 2015 before being scrapped during the 2015-2016 season in favor of three 3-on-3 matchups between four teams divided along division lines.

The 3-on-3 matches invigorated the low-stakes games, known for players clearly not playing their best, but it sacrificed the joy both players and fans experienced through the fantasy draft.

Previous years of the fantasy draft brought many fun upsets, such as the Sedin brothers being split into different teams for the first time in their careers, a trade of Kessel for Seguin that mirrored reality, and even Ovechkin being drafted third to last after he campaigned for being overall last in order to win a car. And we’re all excited to see who the two captains will be this year.

The rules remain the same as before: fans will vote for their top favorite players for each position to determine some of the All-Stars, while the NHL Commission will determine the rest, as well as the invited rookies. Then players themselves determine who the captains and alternate captains will be. These two teams will draft the remaining All-Star players in a series of 18 rounds. 

Each team will consist of three goalies, six defencemen and twelve forwards. All goalies need to be picked by the end of the 10th round and all defencemen by the 15th. One trade will be allowed.

The best part of the fantasy draft is the draft itself. Player personalities really shine as they joke with each other, and every year the teams have produced team-ups and matchups never seen before.

Voting begins Monday and will run through January 1st.

* * *

“You know, if I get chosen as a captain—” a likely event, because Kent has been voted in as the Pacific Division captain for the last five years and because he’s leading the league in points this year, “—I’ll pick you first.”

“You’re not supposed to talk about it.” Jack does not sound convincing over the phone. He’d probably sound even less so in person.

“Zimms.” Kent lets just a touch of frustration bleed out.

Jack mirrors him perfectly with, “Kenny.”

Maybe this was a stupid thing to bring up. But players have already started lobbying him to get drafted and he hasn’t even won the vote yet. He’s not going to let whatever stupid voice in Jack’s mind that makes him feel not good enough resurface.

“I’m serious. You’ll—” _always be first to me_ “—be my first pick.” Whew. Kent narrowly avoids being entirely too open about his feelings.

“Sure, Kenny.” Jack sounds a little more believing this time, which is all Kent can ask for.

* * *

snailmailpail reblogged from faestaynight

Anonymous asked:  
do you think it’s tacky and disrespectful that people are writing parse hanahaki fic now that he actually has hanahaki? 

faestaynight answered:  
Oof, that’s a loaded question anon. It certainly seems that you feel that way. Some people would argue that ALL RPF fic is “tacky and disrespectful.” Are you asking me because of my rec list? Because like I said in my original post, immediately inhaling those fic helped me process my shock and grief and worry for a public figure with whom I will never interact with directly. It helped me feel more in control—not of the overall situation obvs but with my own doomsday thoughts. I’m not going to begrudge someone writing hanahaki fic, whether it’s to help process their own feelings or because they just felt like it. Don’t like don’t read. 

#rpf #kent parson #cw hanahaki #fandom #dont like dont read #say it louder for the people in the back #someone trying to start shit but fae aint having it  
24 notes 

* * *

_December 2020 - January 2021_

His and Jack’s bye weeks sandwich All-Star Weekend, so they decide that Kent will spend his in Providence. Then, after All-Stars, Jack will spend his in Vegas.

It gives them almost two whole weeks together, and Kent is both giddy and anxious over it. If he and Jack implode, it will probably be from the prolonged proximity.

Luckily, the press stopped pestering him after he got a twenty-game point streak and they realized he really can play just fine. Better than fine, because he’s Kent fucking Parson and that’s a record-worthy number that is going to keep going up if Kent’s got anything to say about it.

The paparazzi stalking dies down too, once they realize Kent isn’t doing anything different or sneaky or even interesting. If Twitter could also forget, that would be great, but he doesn’t hold out hopes for it.

December rolls into January. Kent keeps scoring.

He also keeps deflecting conversations with all the women in his life—and most of the men too. Swoops and Scrappy have tried to bring things up, and while Kent didn’t dodge their questions smoothly, he did still manage to dodge them.

Soon enough, Kent finds himself flying off to Providence. Luckily, most people, even the weird hardcore shippers that write the fanfiction about them, don’t think Kent is in love with Jack. Ten to thirteen years, is generally agreed upon by random internet people as being too long for him to have been sick, given the severity of symptoms he shows.

They’re wrong, of course, because treatments are much more accessible in recent years and Kent did take a five-year break between illnesses, but Kent is in no rush to reveal the truth.

Jack welcomes him with a hug that feels like home and evokes the longing Kent’s been unable to crush down.

“How was the flight?” Jack asks, even as he still holds onto Kent.

Kent lets himself indulge—smushing his face into Jack’s shoulder and breathing in the unique scent of Jack mixed with fabric softener.

“It was fine. Picked up a new book at the newsstand but it was crap. Slept a bit.” His words are muffled against Jack’s shirt, but still understandable. Probably.

Jack releases Kent from the embrace after what feels like both an eternity and not enough—never enough.

“You sure you don’t want to come to tonight’s game?” Jack asks as he helps Kent get settled into his house. 

Kent nudges him with his shoulder. “Would if I could, but I don’t love getting mobbed—by fans or by WAGs. Don’t worry, I’ll watch from the plush embrace of your couch from heaven.”

Jack’s couch is a pretty ordinary looking L-shape sectional sofa. It is also the most comfortable couch Kent has ever sat on.

“I knew it.” Jack flashes a teasing smile. “You’re dating me to get access to my couch.”

“You caught me,” Kent admits. “She’s my true love.”

Kent joins Jack for his pre-game nap but doesn’t manage to fall asleep. He’s too busy savoring the way Jack spoons him like a cuddly octopus—he’s tucked firmly against Jack’s chest with their legs tangled together.

It’s nice.

It’s warm—secure, really—being all wrapped up in Jack’s arms and Jack’s love.

So why does he feel like he’s breaking apart, piece by piece?

All the endless nights where he curled up alone, hurting and gasping for air—metaphorically and literally—cannot be erased so easily.

Sleepless nights without Jack now turn to sleepless days with Jack.

 _Trauma response_ , Melinda would say.

His breaths are no longer labored, but his heart weighs as heavily as ever.

There are no words for the desperation with which he wants to believe this can last—that he can have this. But every jagged piece of himself is a slicing reminder of the ways he cut himself up trying to vie for the unattainable.

How many times had Kent said _I love you_ as children? Jack never said it back. They both don’t say anything now.

Fear clings to Kent to strongly to shake off—Jack’s going to change his mind, sooner or later. After all, what’s different between then and now, that Kent’s feelings are suddenly returned?

Anything can repeat itself. Just look at Kent.

Jack should know that Kent is healing from the hanahaki, but Kent can’t bring himself to disrupt their fragile dynamic.

He needs more time for his heart to heal first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspo for this chapter is Little Do You Know by Alex and Sierra


	6. Chapter 6

_January 2020_

Jack wonders what love even is, sometimes, and how magic will know if he’s in love. More than sometimes, really.

With Bittle, things had been soft and saccharine, with both of them trying to fit themselves to be how the other wanted. Bittle overextending himself catering to Jack’s needs; Jack letting him even as it began to feel more cloying than comforting.

That’s what broke them in the end—warping themselves to become what they thought the other needed, not what the other actually needed.

But he did love Bittle.

The question now is: does he love Kent?

Kent, Kenny, Parse. He’s loved Jack through the good, the bad, and the ugly. There are no pretenses between them.

It’s a heady freedom.

And Jack’s feelings are different than when they were kids, and they’re not quite the same as what he felt for Bittle but—

—he wishes—

—he hopes—

—he thinks—

—this is love.

* * *

**Parsermann 2k21** @pimms · 1 day  
please please plesase all i want for this new year is the Zimmermann-Parson reunion to the same line  
67 Retweets 199 Likes

**Parsermann 2k21** @pimms · 20 hrs  
okay i also want kenny to get better from the hanahaki that too and be happy all that jazz  
39 Retweets 124 Likes

* * *

Jack is trying hard to keep his wits together, sitting next to Decker from the Rangers. It’s stupid, to be nervous about the All-Star fantasy draft. The ASG doesn’t have any impact on regulation games or records. The setup isn’t even the same as the regular draft.

His nerves really don’t make sense because he’s been to All-Stars every year since he went pro. He recognizes all the players here, either by reputation or personally.

And yet.

It’s the draft.

And the media hasn’t been helping with their narrative of “Jack Zimmermann finally being drafted” nonsense. They’re dragging up dirt from 2009, again, and being nosy about his business.

Kent was voted in as a captain by the fans, along with Sidney Crosby. It’s not a surprise, with how well Kent’s been doing this season and how popular he is overall. What is a surprise is that Tater is Kent’s alternate, with Davey from the Schooners as Crosby’s.

The announcer hushes the audience and starts regaling everyone with a history of the All-Star Game. Jack knows enough that he’s comfortable tuning him out.

Instead, he studies how Kent thrives under the spotlight.

Kent and Crosby and the announcer—whose name Jack has already forgotten—banter for a bit, and damned does Kent look good in his All-Star jersey, flashing a cocky smile at the crowd. He wins the puck toss for the first pick and the two captains split to join their As on opposite sides of the stage.

“We’ll give Parson and Mashkov a moment to discuss this first pick,” the announcer says. “Who are we going to see drafted first? Historically, teams tend to draft their own teammates. Will Team Parson go for the Las Vegas Aces’ goalie Oliver Schrapp? Or will it be alternate captain Alexei Mashkov’s fellow Providence Falconer Jack Zimmermann, who as we recall, has a history with Parson too? Zimmermann-Parson set records in Juniors that still hold up today and were set to go first and second in the 2009 draft, before Parson went first and Zimmermann not at all. Will he go first today?”

Jack’s tension ratchets up. His suit feels too tight and the cotton is oddly scratchy for a shirt he’s worn several times already. It’s not nearly the anxiety he felt before his actual draft, but his ears are starting to hear static. He adjusts his tie and risks a glance at Kent.

Steady eyes meet his and soothe Jack’s nerves.

It will be okay.

“Team Parson, are you done conferring? Who will be the first draft pick of the 2021 All-Star Game Fantasy Draft?”

Kent smiles, showing off his teeth with a shit-eating grin. It’s what he always looks like when he baits the media, and concern ripples through the anxiety blanketing Jack’s mind.

“Twitter, I hope you’re ready for this,” Kent taunts, still looking directly at Jack. “First pick’s gotta be our boy Jack Zimmermann.”

Over the clapping and cheers that erupt is the sound of the announcer reeling off Jack’s stats and something about the no-look one-timer, but Jack doesn’t pay attention to any of that.

Jack’s too busy committing to memory the way Kent’s face softened for flicker of a second after he spoke Jack’s name—an expression meant for him and him alone to see. It reads _I love you_ and _it’s always been you_ and so much more.

He already feels light-headed from the sudden rush of relief that crashed into him when his name was called, but he’s also being hit with the realization that, for him, it’s always been Kent, too.

Somehow, he manages to put on the white Team Parson jersey and say something witty to the announcer. The bro-hug he exchanges with Kent is entirely too short and not enough, but Jack collects his wits as he sits on the stage.

So this is what it’s like to be first.

* * *

Jack buzzes with anticipation for the faceoff and tries not to be weirded out by how easily he fell into having Kent on his line again during practice.

Now that it's game time, there's a steadiness in his hands and a clarity in his mind he hasn't experienced since juniors—had forgotten all about. It's like coming home.

The puck drops.

Jack wins the faceoff.

There’s such a burning awareness at the forefront of his mind of where Parse is that Jack doesn’t even need to look. His heart sings.

He passes.

Parse scores.

Only ten seconds have passed.

Jack crashes into Parse and screams, “We’ve still got it!”

Parse knocks his helmet against Jack’s and says, “Fuck yeah we do.”

One more goal, almost just as fast, and Team Crosby starts putting in their regulation-level effort.

Two more goals and they’re being subbed out so other forwards can have a chance to score.

On the ice, off the ice, always at the same time, always together.

Going against Parse these past few years has been exhilarating. This blows that out of the water entirely. How could Jack have ever forgotten this feeling?

It lights a fire in Jack’s soul. He’s burning up—he’s never felt this alive.

It’s kismet, it’s magic, what they’re making on the ice.

He’s floating so damned high he can take on anything.

* * *

Kent savors every moment they share on the ice.

Playing with Jack is—it’s the impossible dream come alive. Kent’s first two loves—hockey and Jack—together again.

There’s only the skid of his skates, the puck, and Jack.

* * *

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 hr  
FUCK yall see the ZIMMERMANN FUCKING PARSON NO LOOK ONE TIMER!!!!!! 10 SECONS BABY!!!!  
2 Replies 10 Retweets 34 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 hr  
A FUCKING GAIN  
1 Reply 0 Retweets 5 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 2 hr  
IM HOLLERING  
1 Reply 0 Reteets 4 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl · 1 hr  
team parson is committing a MURDER on ICE  
3 Replies 17 Retweets 56 Likes

**parse parse baby** @gayhl 30 min  
this was the most beautiful game I have ever fucking witnessed what the actual fuck YALL BOTH OF ZIMMERMANN PARSON GOT HAT TRICKS FUCKING ICONIC  
2 Replies 20 Retweets 77 Likes

* * *

**NHL** @ NHL 5 min  
Team Parson beats Team Crosby in the 2021 #NHLAllStar Game with a record setting 20-10 game.  
10 Replies 35 Retweets 199 Likes

* * *

Of course, things come crashing down only a few days later.

With Kent at morning practice their first day in Vegas, Jack makes himself at home in the house.

He plays a bit with Kit, until she loses interest and goes for a nap—admittedly not a bad idea, but Jack isn’t particularly tired and Kit is sleeping in the exact center of Kent’s bed.

His phone buzzes. A text from Kent reads _can’t remember if I have condoms, can u check 1st drawer of nightstand._

Perfect timing—Jack was just about to head back to the living room and either read or watch some TV. Jack tugs lightly on the handle of the first drawer and dislodges a part of the nightstand above it.

For a moment, Jack is concerned he broke the top of the nightstand, but it’s actually a shallow drawer. Does that make it the first drawer?

He opens it fully, finding only a pen and some forms. There are clearly no condoms in it, but Jack doesn’t close the drawer.

The form on top reads “Hanahaki Petal Tracker” and has a twelve-month calendar printed on it.

Jack shouldn’t look. Despite Kent’s illness being what brought them together again, they rarely speak of it, and Jack always lets him bring it up first—which isn’t often.

Jack looks.

He remembers what the tracker is for, from his early research into the disease. On this specific form, each day box is separated into halves marked AM and PM. The instructions on it say to count how many petals were coughed up and mark it for each half day.

There are a few low numbers marked in the early days of January but they stop in the middle and don’t start up again. There are dashes marked up until today’s date.

It’s…confusing.

Jack checks underneath and finds a similar form, which is filled out for the latter half of the calendar year. It must be from last year. Numbers are high and frequent for a few months before starting to dwindle with the year-end.

He takes in and lets out in a shuddering breath.

This is Kent’s personal medical stuff. He never should have looked, but Jack can’t unsee this—can’t unknow this.

Kent is—he’s getting better—that’s what the form indicates, right? Fewer petals, less often—that means less sick.

Less sick is good.

It is, but—

—why has Kent not said anything?

Jack has been twisting himself in knots about—everything. He thought if Kent wasn’t getting better, then what Jack feels for him isn’t love. Or rather, the right kind of love. Platonic love can’t heal hanahaki, only romantic can.

And if Jack’s feelings weren’t romantic, then what is love? With Bittle, it was always easy, until it wasn’t. It’s weird to compare Kent and Bittle, especially since the feelings seemed so different.

Kent has also elicited the strongest of emotions out of Jack, from the brightest of joys to the hottest of furies, from the ugliest resentment to the deepest affection.

Jack has been wondering for weeks how and why what he feels for Kent isn’t the right kind of love.

But it is.

He’s been doubting his own mind and feelings when there was never a need to—it’s just that Kent has been hiding the truth.

_A lie by omission, brah_ , Shitty would say.

A dawning sense of deceit—of betrayal—washes over Jack. How long has Kent been lying to him?

A welcome distraction comes in the form of his phone buzzing, but only for a moment. It’s a text from Kent: _did you check drawer? going to grocery store now, any requests??_

It’s a reminder that Jack is accidentally snooping and never even checked the right drawer. Jack places the forms, slightly crumpled from the tight grip he didn’t realize he had on them.

There are, in fact, condoms in the nominal first drawer, so Jack texts him back as such, along with food he wants Kent to buy.

With that quickly taken care of, Jack returns to figuring out what the hell he’s going to say to Kent.

Kent lied—has been lying, for at least a month, maybe two—Jack’s not sure how exactly to read the chart.

Jack paces in the bedroom. There’s no delicate way to approach this. Kent will bluster about how Jack found the charts in the first place and accuse Jack of something probably true and definitely painful. Then Jack’s hackles will raise, and he’ll say something awful right back.

Fighting with Kent is the absolute worst because they know each other’s weakest spots, and part of why they know those spots is because they love each other.

_Crisse de calice._

Jack is in love with Kent. Validation soothes the sting of betrayal—the love he feels is real and not a product of hope and imagination.

As upset as Jack is, he doesn’t want to fight—nobody ever wins when they fight. They just tear each other apart in the process, and their own hearts too.

Love isn’t enough to make a relationship work. Jack needs to figure this out.

* * *

They make lunch together when Kent gets back. Jack soaks up soft smiles and easy banter—those might soon turn to harsh sneers and cruel jabs. It’s the calm before the storm that Kent doesn’t know is coming.

Jack tossed out starting with variations of _we need to talk_. Nobody ever responds well to that phrasing, and Kent’s guard will instantly be up. He’ll need to be gentle but direct. Start off with an apology, admit his own wrong-doing, and then frame the situation without casting blame on Kent.

Yes, he looked up communication tips to prevent relationship conflict. Hopefully, the internet is right—the recurring themes and ideas seemed sound to Jack.

Jack resists the temptation to hold off because Kent has a game tonight. Waiting, letting things fester and drag, will only harm them. If things go badly, Kent might be able to sleep off the frustration in his pre-game nap. It sounds like bullshit even in his head.

He maneuvers Kent to the living room couch—which is not as comfortable as his—after they eat, and stops Kent from turning on the TV.

“Kent,” Jack says, with just the right amount of seriousness to make Kent look at him with concern.

“What’s up?” Kent asks, with more curiosity than cautiousness. This is good. Kent doesn’t have walls up. _Yet_ , the pessimistic part of his brain says.

Jack takes in a breath, which causes Kent to sharpen his gaze to concern. “I know I shouldn’t have looked, but I found your petal tracker in the nightstand.” Kent flinches back and opens his mouth to speak. “No, don’t, let me finish. Please.”

Jack pauses for a moment, waiting in tense silence for Kent to explode. When it seems that Kent will let him get his final words out—or maybe that Kent is just too paralyzed to say anything—Jack asks, voice faltering only slightly, “I—I just want to know—why didn’t you tell me?”

Kent’s looking down at his lap now, fists clenched tight. Jack wants to take those hands into his own, smooth out the tension and twine their fingers together. He resists.

“Because,” Kent says, and finally raises his head to look at Jack again. Stormy eyes meet Jack’s, with a howling glare that sets him on edge. A fight is brewing, but Jack tells himself to resist the pull. “I didn’t think it would matter.” The next pause is like a lull in furious winds which will inevitably start blowing again harder. Jack braces for it. “I figured you would fall out of love soon enough and I didn’t want to deal with your pity and guilt afterward.”

Jack holds himself still as he tries to keep his emotions steady—because it hurts. _Merde_ , it hurts, what Kent is saying. He reminds himself to breathe. There are so many competing emotions buzzing in his mind.

But once he gets the loosest grip on his voice, all Jack can say is a heartbroken, “Kenny.”

* * *

The way Jack says his name tugs on his heartstrings. Kenny—one word, two syllables, with a hundred meanings found in between the letters, disbelief and devastation at the forefront. Fuck, this was never what he intended. Kent's bluster dissipates in the face of Jack's anguish, leaving him hollowed out and achingly open.

“I—” Kent has no more defense with the truth laid out, except for more of the truth, and finds words he has never intended to say out loud. “I didn't think this would last. I still don't. A decade, Jack, of loving you without it being returned. It's damn convenient for you to return my feelings right now, but how I am supposed to expect this to last?”

He watches as Jack takes both of Kent's hands in his own, unfolding clenched fingers and smoothing his own fingers into the crescent divots left in Kent’s palm. “What can I do,” Jack asks, “to convince you this is real for me?” He shifts closer to Kent. “You're it for me.”

Kent shakes his head and continues staring at how Jack holds his hands. He tries to ignore how the secure grip feels like Jack is gently cradling his heart. “You can't promise me that. You can't—” Kent's voice breaks and he can feel his face turning that stupid splotchy shade of red it gets when he's about to cry.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“I love you,” Jack says, startling Kent into looking up at him. He finds Jack staring at him with tender affection. “I guess I've never said that before. But I do.”

_I love you_. Those words are a sum of everything Kent has been denying himself for these past months and a coalescence of feelings between two foolish boys grown into foolish men. It’s almost too much, and it shouldn’t be enough, but either way, Kent is overwhelmed.

Out of familiarity, out of exhaustion, out of who-the-fuck-knows-maybe-it’s-time-to-bare-all-secrets, Kent picks at the oldest scar on his heart—the deepest scar, the one that still tugs at him even now—asking, “And before? Did you love me then?”

What’s different, between now and then?

Jack tightens his grip on Kent’s hands and looks unbearably sad for only a moment before it smoothens to sympathy.

“That’s not—” Jack starts to say, and Kent fills in options like _fair_ for him in his mind. “What happened when we were kids—I don’t know. I can’t say that I did or didn’t, because I never let myself think about it for long enough to figure it out. And I’ve blocked a lot of the good out with the bad since then.”

Jack runs his hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to explain what it had been like.

“Kenny, the entire year before the draft, my brain was like one of those broken TVs, the old box kind with a satellite antenna. I had these beautiful moments of clarity on the ice, like the TV could actually tune onto a channel, but otherwise, my mind was like that black and white fuzzy static. Being with you was like hitting the mute button—I could ignore the soundless static for a little bit, but it never went away.”

While Kent doesn’t have anxiety, he has had moments like how Jack’s describing. It revives his age-old wish that he could have done more for Jack back then, even though he knows he couldn’t have.

“Jack…” Kent isn’t sure what to say, and lets Jack pull him into a hug.

“There was no space in my mind for love, only the sheer panic that never turned off,” Jack continues to explain, holding Kent. “I wasn’t in control. The overdose was like pulling the plug, literally, turn it off and on again. I’m sorry there was no space for you, afterward.”

The only thing Kent can do is hold onto Jack like he’s an anchor keeping Kent from floating away in the flood of emotions rushing through him.

“All I can say now,” Jack says as he releases Kent slowly, with what feels like a reluctance Kent refuses to let his mind doubt, “is that I love you and I’m choosing you—us, this.”

Jack’s words are the much-needed rain after the drought in Kent’s heart, washing away old hurts and letting hope blossom. They still have a lot to talk through—Kent needs to apologize for hiding the truth—and he’s not foolish enough to think things will be easy after this, but for now--

—Kent lets himself be loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts - comments are kudos are much love! 🌸💕 Feel free to point out any mistakes.


End file.
